


Entropy

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief Underage, Death, Funerals, Hospitals, M/M, Mourning, Overdosing, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Substance Abuse, Underage Drinking, psuedo-incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Loki disappeared and Thor didn't see him until five and a half years had passed and they stared at each other from across their mother's grave." </p>
<p>Thor buries Frigga and Loki comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. loneliness came and you were away

**Author's Note:**

> First Thorki fic, hooray. 
> 
> And also, in the never-ending story of my writing, this was supposed to be a one-shot but it got entirely out of control, so whoops.

The sky is slate grey and weeping the morning of Frigga’s funeral.

Thor stands at the window, his breath fogging the glass, as he watches the raindrops chase each other until eventually they merge together. The reflection shows his best friend lurking over his shoulder, solemn brown eyes watching him, yet it’s another few moments before she speaks.

“They’re getting in the cars now.” Sif’s voice is careful, cautious, so unlike her that it makes Thor’s skin bristle. He continues staring at the window, searching for a hint of the impossible. Sif shifts her weight and clenches her fists. “They’re going to be leaving soon. We should go.”

With a deep inhalation, Thor turns around. It doesn’t matter that all of his secrets are writ plain on his face—Sif knows them already and all he can see in her face is deep sympathy. “It’s time,” and she lays a soft hand on his elbow, steering him towards the door. Thor looks closer—he can see the strain that the past few days have taken on her, thin lines spidering out from the corners of her eyes and across her forehead, skin too pale and eyes too bright. But her steps are steady as she leads them out of the room and her grasp of his wrist is like an anchor. He can’t help glancing backwards though, his steps stuttering. “He’s not coming,” Sif tells him and even though he already knew that, it still hurts to hear it stated so baldly.

“Yeah,” he rasps, following Sif down the stairs. Outside, the cars are waiting to take his family to the church. An umbrella is pressed into his hand but he leaves it shut, savoring the rain’s soft kiss.

Even after a silence spanning years, some part of him had still believed that Loki would return for his mother’s funeral.

*~*

 

_Aneurysm_ , had been the cold diagnosis. Something that had lurked in his mother’s brain for years perhaps, biding its time until she had been working in her garden without him or his father nearby. Just a split second and Frigga fell, life stolen in between one breath and the next. The doctors had assured him countless times that it would have been painless, that she never knew what was happening but Thor somehow doubted it, suspected that Frigga had purposefully put herself apart from the rest of the family so as to avoid a scene. He’d thought that she’d fallen asleep in the afternoon sun when he’d found her and it was only the half planted bulbs beside her that had alarmed him.

Thor is grateful for the blessedly short service. He doesn’t think that he could bear having to sit through an hour of listening to a veritable stranger extol his mother’s virtues. He knew the woman for over twenty-five years; he was well-acquainted with her qualities.

At the end he, Odin, Freyr, Heimdall, Tyr and Volstagg stand. Thor avoids looking at his friend, doesn’t think about how he had to ask him minutes before the service to act as a final pallbearer. He won’t allow himself to remember that he had left that spot open for Loki or how his mother’s face would light up every time they received the barest hint of Loki’s whereabouts. Anger is not an emotion that he wants to feel today and whenever he thinks of Loki all he can feel is stark betrayal.

As he passes the last pew in the crowded church a singular face catches his attention. It’s just for a second, one glimpse out of the corner of his eye—he can’t falter, can’t risk throwing off the pace of the others and by the time he reaches the doors the feeling is gone. He scans the crowd and there is no hint of the face which caught his interest. Thor bites back his curiosity and sadness and watches as the hearse doors open.

*~*

 

At the graveside mud covers the sides of his shoes as he walks to the chairs set aside. Sif pushes an umbrella into his hand and when he makes no move to open it, sits beside him and covers them both. It’s excruciating, watching the casket in front of him, bedecked with flowers and a picture of his mother beaming at him. It’s awful and fake and Thor wants nothing more than to smash it, to scream at the people surrounding him, the ones who never knew Frigga, didn’t know that she liked a cup of tea at the very end of the night and that she preferred to turn on the TV with her toes. Rage builds in him and Thor jerks his head away—

And that’s when he sees him.

The lanky figure huddles underneath two massive oak trees, almost but not quite hidden behind their bulk. The years have changed him—the face is thinner and hair longer and he doesn’t know where the posh designer clothes came from but it’s still Loki. He can feel the weight of his brother’s stare across the distance that separates him. Shock slams him back into his seat and freezes his anger until all he can feel is the beat of _Loki Loki Loki_ through his blood.

Beside him, Sif feels the sudden tension which seizes his body and her fingers claw into his thigh, five painful warnings. Thor knows the moment that she spots Loki, a low hiss of breath drawn into her nostrils and released through clenched teeth. Her grip on his leg tightens to the point of bruising. Thor doesn’t turn his gaze towards her, his whole attention absorbed by Loki. His mouth opens to call and he’s prepared to sprint to the other man when a sharp, vicious jerk of Loki's head stops him.

“ _No_ ,” Loki mouths, green eyes wide in fury and Thor feels doused, the thrill and rage replaced by sick resignation. Loki’s gaze shifts obviously to where the casket sits before he locks eyes with Thor once more. “ _No_ ,” he says once more, lips curving around the word. Thor understands what he is trying to say—Frigga would not have wanted him to cause a scene.

Loki is wrong and Thor feels a little spark of twisted satisfaction in his brother’s blunder. Frigga would have thrown Odin himself aside in order to reach her youngest boy, public opinion be damned. But Thor isn’t as brave as his mother and he turns his eyes back towards the service.

It’s only a minute, maybe less, but when Thor looks for his brother Loki has vanished.

Afterwards he investigates, telling his father that he wants a moment alone. The mourners file out and Thor watches them, dodging kind remarks like bullets. Finally, he is left alone with only the cemetery staff for company. They do their job with brutal, unfeeling efficiency and for a moment, Thor wishes that he hadn’t stayed. The sight of the yellow earthmover throwing soil on top of his mother almost makes him sick but after so many years he’ll be damned if he just lets Loki’s trail go cold. He walks to the trees where he last saw his brother. He didn’t expect to find the other man but Thor still feels the all-too familiar stab of frustration and grief. Except this time, the emotions are tempered by something which Thor has not associated with his brother for years—hope.

Because the trees aren’t completely empty.

Because a bouquet of lilies,calla, Frigga’s favorite—sparkling white against the dull sky, rest by the tree trunk. And when Thor picks them up he notices something else—a small stone that sits perfectly in the palm of his hand, its edges worn away from idle handling. A design that Thor recognizes as runic is etched into it but he doesn’t know the meaning. Of the two of them, Loki would know it instantly; he always was the better student. Thor takes a picture of it for later reference.

He waits until the dirt is heaped high before he approaches the headstone. He thought about keeping the flowers, tangible proof of Loki’s sentiment but he’s never stolen from his mother and he doesn’t want to start now. Besides, Loki would be furious if Thor took what was never meant for him.

He centers the flowers perfectly underneath Frigga’s name. Loki would appreciate being the focus of attention and his mother would be grateful for the interruption of the grim black. The stone he puts on top, brushing it with a gentle finger, imagining his brother’s hands traveling over the same surface. He spares one last glance around the cemetery before he leaves, still wondering if he’ll catch the memory of his brother’s presence.

It doesn’t work—he’s alone and he drives back to the house in silence but there’s an aching, empty place within him that finally feels as though the deep cracks are being noticed for the first time.

 

Later that night he finds that the rune means Mother and Thor laughs through the sudden tears that clog his throat.

 

*~*

Loki was sixteen when he found out the truth.

It came from something as innocuous as a science experiment in a routine day. It was a lab to discover their blood type. Loki had sat up in interest but Thor had been too busy trading insults with Fandral to pay much attention to the instructions, not that he needed to. Having his genius little brother in class had led to a lot of teasing—two years younger and possibly smarter than him—but it also yielded practical benefits, such as having a brilliant lab partner readily available.

“Your finger,” Loki ordered, faint snap of irritation in his voice. Thor ignored the tone—it was usually present when Loki spoke to him and he figured that his brother was simply exhausted with dealing with people who were stupider than him.

“Loki, you’re supposed to wait for— _ah_.” Thor’s admonishment ended in a hiss of pain as Loki pricked his finger with a safety pin that somehow appeared in his hand. Bright crimson blood welled up on Thor’s fingerpad and he watched with macabre fascination as Loki skillfully manipulated the liquid onto a glass slide.

“Waiting takes too much time,” Loki answered, his eyes fixed on his own thumb. As the needle pierced his skin his eyebrows twitched but he gave no other sign of discomfort. The professor gazed disapprovingly at their table and Thor shrugged guiltily while Loki entirely ignored the look. He was used to receiving the ire of the teachers as his teachers were mostly used to turning a blind eye to their smartest student’s activities.

He could only get away with watching Loki for so long before someone, probably Loki himself, became suspicious. Thor turned his attention back to Fandral, laughing at his friend’s jokes. Out the corner of his eye he could see Loki working, his face twisted in the peculiar frown that appeared between his eyes and reached down to the bridge of his nose. “Any results yet?” Thor asked, casually tossing the question over his shoulder.

“Congratulations Thor, you can join our parents.” Thor grunted, unwilling to let Loki know that he once again had him stumped. “We all share the same blood type. O-negative,” Loki drawled. “Everyone will want a piece of you.” A strange bite existed in his words but Thor ignored it. He didn’t understand half of what went through Loki’s mind at a given time, even when his brother told him the truth. He couldn’t be expected to understand each inflection of his brother’s voice.

Not even Loki fumbling over the microscope could grant him more than half Thor’s attention, captured by a story of Fandral’s. It was only the gentle clinking sound of the slide shattering against the cold tile floor that finally seized the whole of Thor’s focus. At first laughter bubbled in Thor’s throat, childishly thrilled with Loki’s sudden uncharacteristic display of clumsiness. He laughed again and the sound burbled and died in his throat when he caught sight of Loki’s bloodless face.

His brother hadn’t looked so terrified since they were little and Thor snuck them into a movie theater to see a showing of _The Shining_. Loki’s appearance remained the same—eyes wide and glazed with fear and maybe even tears, his lips parted as sharp gasps escaped. His normally pale skin was chalk white, almost translucent and he trembled so violently that it was a wonder he didn’t fly away.

“Loki?” Thor asked, his fingers gently brushing Loki’s bony wrist. Loki jerked away as though he’d been burnt and Thor flinched in surprise.

“You’re bleeding,” Fandral commented, tone cautious as he pointed to the vivid scarlet stain spreading over Loki’s palm. “You should probably get that looked at…” His voice trailed off as Loki looked down at the hand as though he were seeing the appendage for the first time. Red stained the crevices of his fingerprints and Thor reached out once more.

“Come on,” he said and something contracted in his chest as Loki tensed underneath his touch. Something wild and vicious lurked in his brother’s eyes, barely restrained by the paralyzing terror held within the frozen green depths. “Let’s get you to the nurse, come on.”

No one tried to stop them as they went down the hallway and Thor breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Beside him Loki was silent, his eyes staring ahead at something that Thor could never see. “You all right?” Thor finally asked because he couldn’t think of what else to say to the statue keeping pace beside him.

Loki’s throat worked as he swallowed once, twice, the jut of his Adam’s apple dancing underneath his skin. He was so far away and Thor had no idea how to reach him. It came as a surprise when Loki spoke, his voice hoarse and almost cracking before he wrestled it under control. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” His brother is a talented liar but he wasn’t good enough to cover up the faint tremble of his chin.

 

That night Loki and Odin had a shouting match that ended with several broken lamps and Frigga holding back a distraught Thor, who ached to follow Loki as he sprinted from the house. Only concern for his mother’s body restrained his struggles but his screams of Loki’s name echoed down the street as his brother vanished into the night.

Loki stayed away for a week and when he came back, never said where he had gone.

 

It was only later that Thor realized Loki was practicing how to disappear.

 

*~*

Frigga’s study was always a sanctuary in their house, the place to where the brothers would run when they were in terror of Odin’s wrath. Thor can remember falling asleep here, curled up in the squashy armchair with the warm, clean scent of his mother lulling him into slumber. After Loki left it was here that Thor would come to soothe his pain, his brother’s room still fearsome and melancholy, when entering would have been an acknowledgement that Loki was gone.

It falls to Thor to clean Frigga’s study, his lot to decide what to keep and what to discard, though Thor laughs at the idea that he would throw anything of hers away. With the prospect of new memories shattered, mundane objects such as grocery store receipts become precious.

He finds the postcards in a desk drawer, so casually placed underneath other papers that they had to have been hidden. The stack is at least an inch thick and the pictures showcase travelers’ dreams—Grand Canyon, Alps, Paris, the Great Wall, mountains, beaches, deserts, cities that Thor doesn’t even recognize. None of them have a date, just his mother’s name and address written in an impeccably neat hand that hasn’t changed since high school.

Thor sits on the ground and holds the papers close to his chest. He’s surprised at the anger that flares through him and ashamed at the jealousy which rises from the fact that Loki would send mementos to Frigga and not him. He forces the emotions away because they’re not fair to either person—his mother always kept their secrets while Loki’s love for Frigga was simple and absolute, an incontestable truth like gravity or aging. Whatever he and Loki had, it was made of the fabric that would have obsessed over the cards, resentful and needy, until the missives became less of a kindness and more of a torture.

He’s long ceased to be surprised by Loki’s cleverness or his intuition but his kindness leaves him uncertain.

Thor wonders how his mother kept her secrets, how she managed to catch her son’s erstwhile missives and never betray either one of them. He ponders how many times Frigga’s heart broke, how it must have pained her to know that her youngest had visited all the continents and yet had no place to call home.

 

*~*

 

Thor only lasts a week before he returns to Frigga’s grave.

He doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going—his friends would give him either worry or sympathy, neither of which he wants, and he doesn’t talk to Odin much anymore. The spark of intelligence and power that always shone in his father’s remaining eye has been extinguished with Frigga’s death, leaving nothing but empty sludge behind. Sometimes Thor worries that ever since Loki left, he’s had the same vacant look in his eyes and that some intuitive soul will eventually connect the pieces.

The bright glare of sunlight against the black marble blinds him as he walks to the headstone. On one hand, he’s glad for the reminder of cheerfulness but on the other hand it seems like a sacrilege that any mirth touches a reminder of his mother’s mortality. The staff has cleaned up the flowers left from the funeral and Thor’s sorry for it—he longs for the reminder of Loki, the memento of a man’s love for his mother. But, as Thor comes closer, another spark of hope ignites in his chest—against the black there is a splash of shocking white.

The petals are fresh, wax smooth against his fingertips, pollen ground into the whorls of his prints. Thor reverently brushes the curve of a flower once more before drawing back. He’s halfway convinced that the bouquet will disappear if he examines it too long. He wouldn’t put it past Loki to somehow configure it, to create a gift as fickle as him. For all his fear, however, he can’t resist brushing the petals one last time, gently, as if somehow the flowers can transmit his touch to Loki’s skin.

Even here, with the grim reminder of loss staring him in the face, a reluctant smile tugs at Thor’s lips.

Because more than proof of sentiment, which Thor won’t hold against him, the flowers are proof of Loki’s continued presence.

For the first time, after over five years of running, Loki’s returned home.

 

*~*

 

The night before Thor's twenty-first birthday, Thor found Loki in the bathroom, shaking uncontrollably with blood dribbling out of his nose.

Within an instant Thor was on his knees next to Loki’s body, swearing and yelling at his little brother. Rough hands gripped too-thin shoulders and shook so hard that Loki’s head lolled back and forth. Loki’s eyes gazed out at the world but didn’t focus on anything, his expression frozen into a rigor of fear. Thor didn’t realize that he was screaming until he felt his mother’s hands pulling them apart, her gentle fingers cradling Loki’s head.

“No, no, no,” Thor cried, barely glancing up as his father’s shadow covered the doorway, a grim observer to the drama unfolding before him. Thor’s stomach clenched, sick fear running through him as Loki’s body convulsed, violent jerks which snapped his brother’s teeth together.

Only Frigga’s voice, unrelenting and strong, brought Thor’s focus back, his tear-hazy vision sharpening to reveal his mother’s face. “Call an ambulance,” she told him, hands never ceasing their stroking over Loki’s forehead, no matter how much her youngest shook. “Tell them what’s happened.”

“I don’t…” Thor looked down, mouth dry with terror when Loki’s eyes rolled back, showing only the whites. “I don’t know…”

“He’s had an overdose Thor, now call them and tell them that.”

Without care for the forbidding figure of his father, who stared sternly down at his mother, Thor went to find his phone. As he punched the numbers he could hear arguing—his father’s voice a low rumble and his mother’s keen steel. He listened to them as well as the operator, stammering out explanations as best he could. “It’s…it’s my brother, he’s, he’s shaking and bleeding, he might have overdosed, just please hurry he’s shaking—“

On the other end of the line the operator tried to soothe him. He didn’t listen to the comfort but he did to the advice—Keep him from hurting himself, monitor his breathing, wait for the ambulance to arrive.

Seconds ticked into eternity as Thor watched Loki’s chest heave, ribcage straining with each pained breath. His own head began to swim as he unconsciously matched their breathing, his brain screaming for more than the mere pittance of oxygen it was receiving. He ached to pull Loki into his arms and keenly felt the agony of not being able to soothe this hurt away, of having to watch Loki mindlessly strain to complete the simple task of drawing breath.

When the EMTs arrived they moved him aside with practiced efficiency, movements functional rather than cruel. Thor still wanted to rage as he watched Loki’s body manipulated by strangers. Loki hated to be touched, holding his person as sacrosanct ground, and here someone was peeling back his eyelid and maneuvering his still jerking limbs.

As the paramedics tried to maneuver him onto the stretcher Loki fought them, his arms wildly striking out, a high protesting keen drawn from bloodless lips. The team ignored the struggle and the sound as they efficiently restrained him, clamping his body onto the thin mattress. Watching it, Thor wanted to vomit.

They wheeled Loki away and asked Thor questions that seemed meaningless—when he found Loki, if he was conscious, if he had anything near him. They wanted to know how long he had been using, what his drug of choice was. Thor stared numbly at them, his throat tight around the shame and guilt which threatened to rip him apart. Damn Loki for breaking his heart, for the wild impulsivity that put Thor’s own recklessness to shame.

Frigga clambered into the ambulance, leaving Thor and Odin to crawl along after the flashing lights. Thor sat numb in the passenger’s seat, his father’s voice crashing over him like breakers on a beach and it wasn’t until his father snapped that Thor bothered to drag himself out of apathy. “I know it’s going to be a bloody nightmare keeping the press out of this, but try damn you!” His father viciously ended the call and stared ahead at the road, seemingly unaware of the betrayal in Thor’s eyes. His father’s first concern was press coverage? Thor knew that he didn’t give a damn what the papers printed—he would gladly do a centerfold in return for a guarantee of Loki’s well-being.

Later that night, with the smell of antiseptic burning his nostrils, Thor contemplated trying to find the remainder of Loki’s stash and proceed to pull lines until his nose fell off, just so he can follow him. Loki was always useless on his own. He needed an audience and, if it would get him away from the too-bright and too-sharp waiting room and back into his brother’s embrace, Thor would gladly make himself a sacrifice.

 

*~*

 

A week later and another gathering of lilies sits at Frigga’s headstone, along with a postcard. The paper is damp and edges slightly worn from exposure to the elements but the image is still clear. The Grand Teton Mountains, their jagged peaks clawing at the sky. The snow on their crests makes it look as if they’ve stolen clouds to keep themselves warm.

It’s not until he’s placing the newest postcard in the box with its siblings that the anomaly strikes Thor. Frigga already received a postcard from the Tetons but hers was a lake with water so blue and clear that Thor could have sworn that it had been stolen from the sky itself. Either Loki’s retracing his steps, which doesn’t seem to be the case judging from his previous offerings, or this is something else, the first move in a game that Thor doesn’t yet know how to play.

The answer comes to him just before he drifts off to sleep, feeling so right that Thor doesn’t question how the knowledge arrived in his brain.

The previous postcards were for Frigga.

 

Their counterparts are for Thor.

 

*~*

 

Thor begins to time his visits to Frigga’s grave, down to precise minutes. It’s a feeble hope but one that continues to persist—that if perhaps he makes himself as unchanging as the moon then he will pull the mercurial tide of Loki closer to himself.

The next postcard yields him a glimpse of Beijing, the iconic image of the Forbidden City greeting him. Thor flips it over but not even his name is present. Loki wouldn’t wish to make matters easy for him. Still, Thor holds the small piece of paper close to his chest, cradling it like something fragile and unformed. Once home he reverently places it within the box he has secreted away within Frigga’s study. It fills him with bittersweet glee, the thought that he and his mother share the same secret, that they have become partners in crime.

After the second card Thor wonders what he could give Loki. He wants his brother to know that his offerings are received but more importantly, that he appreciates the giving itself. He knows too well Loki’s tendency to disappear at the first sting of rejection and he won’t risk it, not now when he’s finally been granted a second chance.

It comes to him as he idly flips the postcard between his fingers. These are snapshots of Loki’s life, wordless indicators as to where his brother’s been. Thor has pictures as well, snippets of a more sedentary life. There are thousands of pictures to choose from—Thor has the fortune of being photogenic while possessing friends who enjoy the sound of a shutter clicking.

He finally decides on one taken last year in the summer, taken during a cookout. Just he and Frigga are visible, though Thor remembers Freyr swooping in seconds later to hoist Frigga up and whirl her around. His mother’s head is already turned to the commotion, expression forever frozen in joyful surprise. Thor’s face is relaxed and happy, his gaze focused entirely on Frigga, his bare shoulders kissed a soft gold from the sun. Frigga’s wearing her favorite blue sundress, the one that seemed perfectly tailored to match her eyes.

Thor loves this picture and aches at the thought of parting from it but then he decides that he’s being selfish. He still has the sweet chime of Frigga’s laughter in his ears, the brush of her fingers on his skin, the sweet scents of clove and cinnamon tickling his nose. Loki has had snow capped mountains and forbidden cities and while they are certainly impressive, neither one of these places made Loki doughnuts, hot enough to melt on the tongue and dashed with confectioner’s sugar that covered Thor’s chin until he rubbed it off on Frigga’s shoulder.

That week Thor waits in the cemetery longer than is his wont, operating on a fool’s hope that if he merely wishes hard enough then Loki will follow his summons. The sun goes down and the wind starts to bite before he acknowledges defeat. It smarts but the picture left behind feels like consolation, a seed planted in what Thor hopes will prove to be fertile ground.

The next week the same bundle of flowers awaits him, as well as another postcard. Thor picks it up and dismisses the sinking of his heart as ungrateful. He’s lucky that his action didn’t spook Loki into retreat. The postcard proudly proclaims Berlin, showing an aerial view of the city. Thor smiles as he studies the buildings, wondering which, if any, Loki chose to grace with his presence. He flips the card over, more from habit than aught else and freezes when the precise, slanted script catches his eye.

_I was nearly arrested here—had to spend two days pretending to be a foreign priest before I got out._

Thor laughs his joy to the heavens, head thrown back so that the sound of his glee travels further. His fingers trace over the words, feeling where Loki pressed the pen into the paper, how some of the letters bleed into each other while others stand untouched in a lonely vigil. A further glimpse into Loki’s life but more than that…

After years of shouting at each other with both of them ignoring the other’s words, Thor and Loki are finally sharing a dialogue.

*~*

The next picture Thor gives is one of just Frigga, hunched over a section of her garden with her hands buried in the earth. Her blonde hair is tied up in intricate ringlets around her head, several strands escaping into a frizzy, flyaway mess. Her light shirt and pants have smears of dirt across them, the stains matching the spot high on her cheekbone which had also been kissed by earth.

Thor hesitates, pen poised over the back of the picture before he exhales and begins to write. S _he planted crocuses that year, a whole flower bed full. Afterward she dried them on the porch until you couldn’t breathe without the damn smell in your nose._ He can remember the flowers dangling from the porch, thick and colorful. In the evening they would shield the worst of the setting sun’s glare and sometimes Thor would fall asleep, cradled in the scent and comfort of his mother’s labors.

Loki’s gift to him is a bay with clear turquoise water and sand so white that Thor suspects the aid of Photoshop. He stares at the picture, his wide brow wrinkled in bemusement—Loki’s always hated the beach, the unrelenting heat and sun that Thor seemed to suck in like plants drink down the rain. Loki’s note makes everything clear. _This is one of the Bioluminescent Bays—you can’t see its full glory because cameras can’t capture the light. But imagine the water glowing and seeing the trails made by fish as they cut their way through the water. Of course the guides don’t know the best places. I had to find those on my own._ Thor grins at the thought of his brother sneaking away from a group, forging his own path.

Nothing has changed—when they were younger Loki seemed to have antipathy to following in other’s footsteps. He always wanted Thor to come with him and Thor never knew whether it was kindness, loneliness, fear or simply the thrill of discovery that led to Loki’s desire for company. All he knows is that when Loki changed, when his brother turned into a solitary creature who never gave any indication to where he went wandering, Thor desperately longed for their adventures once more. He felt his brother’s absence keenly; feeling like someone casually reached into his abdomen and took a scoop out of him.

It might be years too late and answering a question that Thor never asked but what matters is that, a tiny molecule at a time, Loki is slowly filling up that empty space within Thor.

 

*~*

 

Thor refused to leave the hospital room until Loki woke.

His parents eventually accepted it and wandered down to the cafeteria to get coffee, using the caffeine to fuel their thankless vigil while Thor sat next to the bed, alternating between watching the spikes on the heart monitor and the minute twitches of his brother’s face. By the time that he and Odin had reached the hospital the doctors had sedated Loki— _for his own good_ they said, empty reassurances spoken from behind masks. _Bring his heart rate down, too hysterical_ …Thor didn’t trust any of them as far as he could throw them but maybe he was wrong. He trusted Loki and look where that got them. Sitting in a chair a size and a half too small for him and memorizing the thin blue lines of veins in Loki’s left wrist.

Loki woke like spring emerging from winter—with difficulty and several false alarms, in which he would sigh and collapse bonelessly back into the pillows. Finally the notion of consciousness took and Loki’s eyelids opened, gradually, protesting like windows that had been painted shut. Thor sat by his bed and tried not to lean forward, to give his brother enough space.

The normally sharp eyes were cloudy as they drifted over Thor’s frame. He could tell that Loki was not entirely cognizant from how his gaze wandered and drifted, turning blurry at the very edges. His brother had a specific way of raking his eyes over Thor’s frame, his focus sharp and intent, as if with little more than a thought he could flay the very skin from Thor’s frame. It tended to be distressing, even more so because Thor usually found it wildly arousing. But all of Loki’s razor-thin intelligence was missing and the lack of it had pain bubbling up, hot and thick, in Thor’s chest and throat.

“Still with you I see.” Even Loki’s voice was hazy, rough asphalt replacing sleek silk.

Thor tried to speak but his voice caught in his throat, the terror of Loki’s shaking body and wide, stricken eyes finally catching up to him. From his cocoon of pillows Loki bemusedly raised an eyebrow, though even that seemed to be difficult, the line of hair twitching oddly before it raised itself to proper position. The failure of his brother to perform such a mundane, practiced action finally saw Thor coughing out an ugly sob, lips curling inward in an attempt to hold the sound back.

For his part, Loki appeared mildly alarmed, especially when tears started to leak unashamedly from Thor’s eyes. “Goodness,” Loki said when several seconds had passed and it became apparent that Thor had no intention on stopping. “You’re not injured so I really don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“Shut up,” Thor choked out as his fingers ruthlessly fisted the flimsy fabric of the hospital sheets. “Shut up, you stupid, you fucking…” Loki had the good grace to look surprised, the expression sluggishly appearing on his face.

“Why the anger?” he asked, like he didn’t already know, like he was unaware that Thor had been by his bedside for hours, chancing quick trips to the bathroom just in case Loki happened to wake while he was gone. Loki didn’t know about the reckless, desperate daring that made him bury his nose deep into the nape of his brother’s neck, frantically searching for Loki’s scent underneath the impersonal smell of hospital sheets and medicine. The smell was soothing, a flimsy anchor to tether him to the present. Thor couldn’t imagine not falling asleep with Loki’s fragrance burrowed deep into his nostrils, the sharp bump of the smaller man’s vertebrae brushing against his nose.

“Why?” Thor asked, fingernails digging painfully into his palms to keep him from reaching out to Loki. “Did you want to die? _Why_?” He couldn’t even feel ashamed at how his voice cracked.

“If I’d wanted to kill myself I would have tried much harder,” Loki snapped, the suggestion that he could fail resurrecting some of his spark. “Oblivion was one of the outcomes,” he admitted after a beat, voice soft and thoughtful. “A risk I suppose, though a far-flung one. Certainly not a deterrent.”

“What, this was a fucking experiment?” Thor hated that his voice was growing in volume, that he was confirming Loki’s frequent accusations about his temper but he couldn’t restrain himself. To think that this agony was brought on by Loki’s curiosity, his need to push and prod until something struck back, his desire to destroy in order to see the base components of an object, to create havoc just to delight in the mastery of chaos, to wreck something without knowing how to put it back together…Thor won’t forgive him this pain.

Loki hummed. “If that’s what you want to call it.” His words slurred in a way that meant he was no longer focused on the original question. “I wanted to see how much I could take, how far I could go…” Fuzzy eyes looked to Thor and the blond swallowed when he realized that his brother was peering through him, gazing into worlds that Thor could never hope to approach. “If you had seen it Thor, if you could feel it…” Loki’s smile was sloppy and uncoordinated, perching crookedly just above his chin. “You wouldn’t be asking why if you’d felt even half of what I did.”

Rage and grief waged war within him until Thor wasn’t sure of what he was feeling, only that he was about to split at the seams from it, tiny shreds of himself colliding with each other until he was shaking. Loki didn’t notice, his usually perceptive eyes clouded over with drugs and memory. “I didn’t…” he breathed and Thor only listened with half an ear. “I didn’t want to leave you behind. I wish you could have come with me…”

“Shut up.” Thor’s voice was a low growl coming from behind teeth clenched so tightly that he feared they would crack. Loki startled, wide eyes sliding up to Thor’s face. At that moment Thor wanted nothing more than to grab Loki’s thin shoulders and shake him until sense clattered into his brilliant mind, until he could feel sentiment in the cold body. “Do you honestly not understand what it is that you did?” Thor snarled as he pushed his face into Loki’s, leaning over his younger brother and invading his space. His hand wound around the back of Loki’s neck and forced the ever-shifting gaze to remain still though Loki’s eyes still flickered to either side of Thor’s face, futilely seeking an escape route. “Do you not get it Loki? You were on the ground in front of me, bleeding—I called you and you didn’t answer, you didn’t answer—“ Thor shook Loki once, his fingertips pressing marks into the pale, paper-thin skin of Loki’s face.

“Can you even imagine how terrified I was that I might have to watch you die?” he roared, all of his self-control vanished but it was worth it for how Loki’s eyes finally slowed to a stop. His brother’s lips parted in fear, sharp little gasps puffing out to hit Thor’s face. Underneath his fingernails Thor could feel Loki shaking and when he saw the gleaming barely contained within Loki’s eyes he winced but still maintained their connection. It was like trying to find a single object in a pitch-black room—a lot of useless rummaging but Thor thought that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to reach Loki.

“I’m sorry,” Loki gasped as he began to shift in Thor’s hold, straining to turn his face into Thor’s palm. Thor didn’t allow him even that retreat, fingers pushing into the soft space just in front of Loki’s ear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Loki sputtered, the words coming out harsh and mangled. Spittle formed at the corners of his thin lips as Loki’s struggles became more frantic. Arms that were still attached to wildly beeping monitors slapped at Thor’s arms and chest, the impact almost laughably weak.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“ Loki’s voice rose to a wail and he threw his head back in a vicious arch before he opened his mouth and keened. Thor was yelling, attempting to soothe Loki or inciting him to greater madness, he wasn’t sure. It was too much pain and anger and sorrow, enough to belong to ten people and not just the two of them.

Nurses rushed into the room, practiced hands already pulling the brothers apart. Behind the hospital personnel Thor heard the rumble of his father’s voice, covered by the soothing burble of his mother. Despite his best efforts Loki was pulled away from him, curving into Frigga’s embrace and hysterically sobbing into her chest. Nurses were yelling at him, their discordant voices adding a strange ringing to the cacophony already pounding inside Thor’s skull.

He was guided away from Loki, ungentle hands pushing him away from his brother, away from where he belonged. Thor stood at the foot of the bed, watching as Loki curled further into Frigga, his face hidden by her long golden hair. Something clenched painfully in Thor’s chest as he realized that for all his attempts to comfort, he only ended up hurting Loki.

After a few long moments Loki finally stopped, his shoulders hitching sporadically instead of continuously. Frigga’s hands still moved in long strokes over his back, chasing away the tremors which shook his frame. “I’m sorry,” Loki whispered once more, his voice muffled and almost inaudible against his mother’s skin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

Thor watched, sick to his stomach as his brother broke down in front of him. For all of his anger he still didn’t want this—not the wreck of a man who used to be his brother, not this shattered person sobbing out their pain. This was not Loki, not his charismatic, smooth, clever brother who could manage to talk his way out of any situation and convince Thor to do almost anything. This is not the brother that he loved and bedded, his Loki, and he doesn’t know how to get that person back.

Two days later Loki was discharged. He and Thor never spoke of his overdose again. The one time Thor tried, Loki turned on him, lips pulled back into a feral snarl until Thor’s heart started to pound in fear. Loki was like a thing possessed as he spat curses and threats into Thor’s face until he finally spun on his heel and stormed out of the room.

 

 

A week after that Loki disappeared and Thor didn’t see him until five and a half years had passed and they stared at each other from across their mother’s grave.

 

*~*

 

 

When he leaves this picture behind Thor knows that he’s taking a risk.

This time there is no image of Frigga held within the photo’s confines. Thor is the sole occupant of this photo, his large frame stretched out along the couch, which is not quite wide enough to hold him—one foot dangles off the end and his torso is contorted into a strange puzzle. His mouth hangs open and one hand rests on his stomach, just above where the hem of his shirt pulls up, revealing a snip of golden skin. It had been late afternoon and a football game was playing on the TV. Thor had settled on the couch, intent on watching the game with the rest of his friends. According to Sif he’d lasted maybe ten minutes before he was asleep and snoring his head off. Fandral texted him the picture later and now Thor’s printed it, leaving the first reminder that Frigga was not the sole family member that Loki has lost.

Thor considers what to write. He almost puts something soppy and poignant— _wish you could have been there next to me, was dreaming of you_. He dismisses the idea as soon as it rises—he can already feel Loki’s eyes rolling, see the curl of his upper lip as it lifts in disdain. Instead, after long minutes of flipping back and forth, he decides on something that will hopefully make Loki laugh. _Taken on 14 October 2010. If you felt an odd rumble underneath your feet that was apparently me snoring. Apologies if I interrupted anything important._

For the rest of the week Thor can think of little else, uncertain and anxious as to how his offering will be received. Will Loki sneer at him? Will he disappear once more in a fit of rage, impossible for even Thor’s resources to trace? Will—and Thor hardly allows himself to even think of this option—will Loki finally relent and show himself?

Finally it comes time for Thor’s weekly trip to the graveyard. He feels ready to jump out of his skin, eyes darting about and peering behind the trees, seeing shapes hidden in the shadows. He juggles this week’s offering—unfortunately it’s little more than a posed photo of Frigga, taken at a charity event. Thor’s written nothing more than a brief explanation. Guilt pricks at him that he didn’t pick a better photo but after the free-falling leap of last week he wanted to retreat into someplace safer.

His chest loosens when he sees the now familiar flowers sitting at the base of the headstone. More than once Thor has considered calling the flower shops in the area to see who buys those specific flowers each week but every time he stops himself. There’s no reason that Loki couldn’t use a fake name but more than that, Thor somehow knows that his brother would not want to be tracked down, like a prey animal run to ground. No, if Loki is to be found it will be on his terms or not at all.

Thor’s swift happiness fades when he searches for the customary postcard but comes up empty. His stomach twists, nausea rising hot and sour in the back of his throat. It was such a simple thing, a picture of himself…He’d thought that maybe it was time, that maybe Loki still harbored fond memories of the both of them…Thor pushes away his grief for his brother and swallows hard as he puts his picture down beside the bouquet of lilies. It’s only when he’s drawing away that he notices the small picture tucked within the stems of the flowers.

It’s unlike any of Loki’s previous gifts in that it’s a picture, like one Thor could have printed at the drugstore. Excitement starts to stir within him when Thor realizes that Loki must have taken this picture or at least have been close by the photographer, though he likes to think that it was Loki who held the camera. He looks for hints of his brother’s personality in what Loki chose to show him, rolling mountains covered in smatterings of green, gold and red leaves, with a setting sun streaking the whole sky pink.

Better than anything else is Loki’s message on the back—the first writing Thor notices is minuscule script towards the top left corner— _16 October 2010_. He forgets the specific importance of the date, his brain too cluttered with the overwhelming relief that Loki has not yet abandoned this latest experiment of his. His memory remains blank until he sees the newer writing, the ink not yet faded from wear and tear. _As you can see, the mountains were still standing two days later so I doubt that any damage you might have done was long-lasting._

Thor smiles as he brushes the words with his thumb. If he concentrates he can almost imagine that he’s hearing Loki’s voice speaking to him instead of the echo of his own. He can almost hear the pleased drawl, the way that his brother curves some vowels and twists the ending of other words until the syllables are dancing in ways that should be unnatural. He wonders if the years have changed any of it, if the once smooth voice has been roughened from years of smoking, if Loki’s picked up an accent from staying in one place too long. He hopes not—his brother always spoke so differently than the rest of them, curling his tongue around the words until they slid from his lips as sweet and smooth as melted chocolate. It would be a shame to lose that.

Buoyed up by his apparent victory Thor stops at a bar about a block away from the graveyard. He comes in here sometimes after visiting his mother, listening to other people’s conversations and letting the hustle and drama of the regular word wash over him like a chaotic shower. It’s madness, this place, and Thor loves it, loves it for its complications and noise. He finds that sometimes, this is the only place he can relax, this overcrowded chic restaurant that sits not too far away from where his mother lies in the ground. To Thor’s rational mind this doesn’t make much sense but then again, the best things in Thor’s life rarely do.

Tonight he restlessly jiggles his knee against the table leg, idly spinning his beer bottle around in large, uneven circles. He listens to the slosh of liquid inside, the faint sound almost swallowed up entirely by waitresses shouting out orders and countless other conversations. Thor hears it all and yet ignores it, allowing the chorus of voices to wash over him. Inside his pocket, Loki’s photograph burns a hole through his clothes until he swears he can feel the image scorching his skin. Only the sound of a chair being dragged away from his table can bring Thor’s attention back to the present. When he looks up to see the cause of the disturbance he chokes on his inhale.

Loki slides into the chair opposite him, black hair falling in careful waves down to his shoulders. A scarf protects his neck, the ends disappearing into a peacoat. His skin is still pale, though light rose dusts his cheekbones, no doubt brought on from the chill in the air outside. He looks skinny, like he doesn’t eat enough but those eyes are still blazing with intelligence. Thin lips curl upwards in a sardonic smile.

“Hello Thor,” Loki says and his voice hasn’t changed a bit.

 

*~*

 

The first time that Thor kissed Loki, his brother was seventeen and they were both drunk.

Within the press of frantically moving bodies Thor tried to find his brother. A rumor had swept through the party that the cops were on their way and the thought of what Odin would say if he found both of his sons here, with lines of coke proudly displayed on tables, more alcohol than blood in their veins , had Thor desperately searching for Loki.

He found his brother languidly sprawled across a couch in the basement of the house, in the company of strangers. Loki barely bothered to lift his head from where it was pillowed on someone’s thigh when Thor called his name and even Thor’s rough grip on his shoulders as he hauled Loki upward barely garnered the blond more than a lazy raise of dark eyebrows. If Thor were more sober than he would be concerned by his brother’s lack of reaction but as it stands the only worry that his brain is capable of comprehending is that of their imminent arrest.

“Loki, we have to go,” Thor tried, his arms shifting their grip on his brother’s too-limp body. “Come on.”

“No,” Loki breathed, a crooked smirk struggling to manifest itself on his face. “I’ll stay here, with all of my,” his throat works hard to swallow and Thor watched as a delicate tongue lapped at the curve of thin lips, “friends.” With a vague gesture, Loki indicated the bodies behind him.

Thor barely glanced at the spectators who watched the confrontation between the two brothers in varying states of drunkenness. “No Loki, we have to go now.” Mistake to invite Loki here, though in his defense he hadn’t expected his brother to accept. Loki and he travelled in different social circles within their community college—namely Thor had a social life and Loki seemed content to immerse himself in the library and only come out for class and the occasional meal. But here they were, both at the same party and now both in danger of ending up in more trouble than even Loki would enjoy.

And if Loki were in his right mind then he surely would have realized that and put that quicksilver mind of his to work on the best escape plan and how to sneak past their father’s stern eye but his bright green eyes were overly bright and yet glazed at the same time. The slow smile that spread over his face looked sickly and Thor smelt the alcohol on his breath. “You go if you’re so eager.” Loki weakly pushed at him, the gesture more for show. Thor grimly held on and took a hesitant step with the ungraceful burden of his brother in his arms.

Together, with faltering steps, they managed to make it outside and eventually collapsed in the relative safety of several trees lining the edge of the property. The fresh scent of dirt assaulted Thor’s nostrils as he contemplated how his life reached this point, lying face down in a veritable stranger’s yard while next to him his younger brother quietly vomited. With a shuddering gasp Loki gracelessly flopped next to him, sharp elbow digging into his side perhaps not deliberately but not entirely an accident.

“You all right?” Thor asked after a few moments. He turned his head to see Loki shakily wipe his mouth with the back of his hand as he stared intently at the glimpses of sky afforded to them through the tree branches. Leaves still clung to the trees and, in early autumn, the air retained some measure of warmth. Still, after a few moments the breeze started to bite. Thor pretended like he didn’t notice Loki slowly moving closer to him, joining their body heat. He was thankful for the extra warmth and Loki was so damn prickly lately that if he mentioned anything about it then his brother would most likely totter back to the house and get himself arrested out of spite.

“Think that it’s safe to go back?” Loki asked after several more minutes. By this time he was pressed fully against Thor’s body, seeking whatever warmth he could leech from his older brother. Thor shrugged and pretended like he couldn’t feel Loki’s booze sweet breath hitting his cheek.

“Dunno,” Thor mumbled, shifting on the hard ground. Loki’s body was heavy on his arm and he could already feel the pins and needles prickling which heralded the loss of feeling in the limb. He couldn’t quite muster enough energy to particularly care about shifting his brother though he did wish that his brother could have found a different pillow other than his shoulder.

“It’s getting cold out here,” Loki muttered and Thor shivered as his fingers started idly tracing patterns on his abdomen. _He’s drunk, he’s drunk_ , he had to remind himself, clenching his fist as he stared up at the sky. Useless to wonder about what could be, what might be—if he turned his head just the right way then his lips would brush Loki’s. “You know that alcohol doesn’t make your body warmer it just makes you feel the cold less, so we would still freeze to death, we just wouldn’t feel it—“

“It’s barely the beginning of October, no one freezes to death in October,” Thor interrupted, jerking as Loki’s fingers pinched at a bit of skin just above his ribs.

“If anyone could, it would be you,” Loki sighed, the damp heat of his breath shifting over Thor’s throat. His skin prickled in response to the stimulus, enough to make him shiver and Loki snickered with satisfaction. “It won’t be long now,” he chuckled darkly. “First you’ll feel your fingers growing cold, then your whole arm and then— _argh_!”

It might be childish but Thor still laughed at his brother’s angry yelp as his cold fingers slipped underneath the hem of Loki’s shirt. His brother might run cold but his skin is still warm enough to be a relief to Thor’s cold fingers. His hand splayed across the quivering muscles of Loki’s abdomen as his other arm kept his brother from wriggling away. “Thor come on,” and Loki must be more inebriated than Thor originally thought because he hasn’t heard his brother sound that whiny in years, the words elongating until they’re almost past recognition. “Stop, stop, stop—“ Because there was nothing in the world that Loki hated more than being pinned down and tickled and it struck Thor’s hazy brain that it was a perfect opportunity to do exactly that. Thin hands beat on his shoulders and back as Thor laughed and rolled so that he was looming over his brother, one hand ceaselessly moving over his brother’s stomach and chest. Loki cursed in between gasps of helpless, infuriated laughter and Thor ignored the sharp pain of his hair being pulled as he laughed, delighted with his plan. “What are you, three?” Loki cried out as Thor dropped his head down to blow an obnoxiously loud raspberry into the crook of his shoulder. Thor laughed again, head swimming with alcohol and the scent of Loki in his nose, the feel of smooth skin underneath his hand and somehow, it seemed to make sense that his lips were moving over the long line of Loki’s throat, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste salt.

Underneath him Loki let out a strangled cry and his pushes suddenly bordered on frenzied, fingers curved into claws which dug cruelly into Thor’s shoulders. The pain awakened Thor’s rational brain and he thought that he was going to be sick as he reared backwards, leaving Loki sprawled on the ground. The moonlight caught his brother’s large eyes, reflecting the betrayed look back at him until Thor wanted to scream.

“What, what was…” It wasn’t often that Thor saw his brother reduced to stammering syllables but he couldn’t feel triumphant about this, not with the churning nausea threatening to overturn him.

“Loki,” he croaked, his hand coming to cover his mouth, as if hiding the offending lips could take back his sin. “Loki…” His mind screamed in relentless horror—no way to pass that contact off as brotherly, not even for him, no way for him to sweep this dirty secret underneath the rug and pray that no one would discover it, no, Loki knew now. All of his curtains have been pulled back and those overly intelligent eyes can peer into the darkest part of him, where Thor never wanted anyone to look.

“I see,” Loki murmured and even though his voice was calm Thor knew his brother well enough to fear that most of all. Loki’s rage always started quietly, like a tsunami gathering force miles away from shore. “Thought to have yourself some fun at the cuckoo’s expense?”

And how his brother could be so brilliant and yet miss so much Thor would never understand. Loki’s expression darkened when Thor said nothing, too busy gaping in shock. “What was it then, a stupid bet made with one of your idiotic friends? It sounds like something Fandral would put you up to—“

“Shut up,” Thor croaked, his throat closing around the words. This might be sick and perverse but he won’t have Loki reducing his twisted love into something less than what it is. If he’s to be damned he’ll do it for the truth and nothing less.

“Then what?” Loki snapped, suspicion sharpening his tone into a lethal razor. Thor’s mouth opened but he found that here, when it was most important, his tongue and brain both failed him and so he did the only thing he could think of—Loki’s lips were parted in anger and surprise and Thor never gave him a chance to close them, his mouth ruthlessly crashing down atop his younger brother’s, telling him with touch what he could not with speech. Underneath him, Loki snarled, his nails scoring harsh lines in the skin of his scalp but Thor’s touch was gentle against Loki’s cheek, thumb brushing over the harsh jawline.

It felt like victory when Loki relaxed and went deliberately pliant. His touch turned less punishing and into more of a warning. And it felt like fireworks, like the forming of the universe when he felt the soft sensation of his little brother pushing up into him, smooth chin brushing his stubble. Thor gasped into Loki’s mouth and the sound was swallowed between the two of them, leaving nothing more than the sharing of air to mark the occasion.

Finally, the need for oxygen became too much and Thor reluctantly pulled away. A thin line of saliva connected his lips to Loki and he took a triumphant sort of pleasure in watching how long it stretched before snapping. He looked down at Loki. He’d never seen his brother look so…content, he supposed would be the word, though there was still wariness lurking in the set of his mouth, an overactive mind searching for the catch, for the hidden punishment in every action.

“I would never,” Thor murmured, pushing his nose into Loki’s cheek. He wanted his brother to stop thinking, stop searching for the blow hidden behind every offer of affection. Thor had no ulterior motive, no agenda—all he had ever wanted was underneath him, was Loki’s hand cautiously curving around the nape of his neck. “Not with this. Not to you.”

He hoped Loki knew what he meant. And, as Loki’s hand pulled him down, his movements becoming sloppy and over-eager, Thor thought that his brother finally understood.

 

*~*

Loki only understands what he wishes to.

For a genius, his brother is frightfully obtuse.

 

*~*


	2. never knew daylight could be so violent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki enjoys painful pleasures, tiny agonies—the ache and burn of muscles pushed past their limits, tonguing a split lip until it bleeds, denying himself something that he wants just to yearn for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will update faster. Not this day unfortunately. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter--pretty heavily referenced drug usage/abuse and also implied infanticide. So um.

*~*

Loki enjoys painful pleasures, tiny agonies—the ache and burn of muscles pushed past their limits, tonguing a split lip until it bleeds, denying himself something that he wants just to yearn for it.

It’s why he watches Thor instead of talking to him, why he slides backward into the comforting embrace of anonymity instead of striding out to meet his brother. He relishes the hurt in his chest, loves how it feels as though it’s tearing him asunder, ripping through his stomach and shredding the tips of his fingers. Sometimes he thinks about striding out to meet Thor, how it will be like two storms colliding, how it would feel to wrap his fingers around that thick throat and just _squeeze_. He wants to pour himself into Thor until he doesn’t exist anymore, Thor’s blood filtering out all of his impurities—

But Loki enjoys pain more than he does closure and so he waits and he lurks and he lets Thor walk away all the while ignoring the nasty whispers of _coward_ _coward_ _coward_ that echo in the empty space in his head. Only when he’s positive that Thor has left does he dare to venture forward, plucking Thor’s latest picture from the headstone with a magpie’s glee.

After he reaches his obscenely small efficiency apartment he throws himself on the bed, uncaring that his shoes scuff the already dirty blankets. Loki’s nose brushes the paper as he holds it close to his face, his eyes crossing and vision blurring as he memorizes the laugh lines bracketing Thor’s mouth and charts the steady growth of silver in Frigga’s hair.

He would have worshipped those strands if he’d been there, would have teased them away from the spun gold of the rest of her hair and braided everything together so that her locks would have been a jeweler’s dream. Loki bites his lip until it bleeds, traces Frigga’s face as he thinks about the fact that he overplayed his hand and that he ended up losing far more than he ever stood to gain.

 

 

Afterwards, when he replays that afternoon, he still can’t find the reason why he decides to follow Thor to the bar, why he pushes open the door and writes the beginning of his own demise. No particular goal comes to mind, nothing except the vague insistent desire buried somewhere underneath his spleen, urging him to _go, yes, talk to him, yes, wrap your fingers in that hair and pull, fall to your knees and worship him, yes go_ …Loki contemplates running but by then he’s standing in front of Thor’s table, studying Thor as intently as Thor studies the beer bottle in his hands.

Thor’s let his hair grow out—when Loki left it barely brushed his chin and now it hangs loose over his shoulders, which have lost none of their broad bulk. His hands still look large and capable, the nails short and centered in their beds. He can’t see Thor’s face and it irritates him and before Loki has a clear plan in mind he roughly jerks the chair opposite Thor away from the table, the scrape alerting his false sibling to his presence.

Some flawed part of Loki enjoys hurting himself, so it stands to reason that the opposite is true, that there is some part of him that enjoys hurting others. It would explain why a shiver of delight runs through him as he looks at Thor and effortlessly categorizes every minute shift and twitch of his not-brother’s face. It creates a delicious sort of agony as he watches—first shock, then disbelief, an imperceptible flash of joy before anger and grief open their ravenous maws, leaving no room for anything else. Nerve endings fire and long forgotten synapses connect, sparking where they meet and Loki hasn’t felt this good in years. “Hello Thor,” he practically purrs, suddenly alight with possibility.

Despite everything, the surprise and the taunt, Thor doesn’t move and surprise blares an alarm in Loki’s skull. He doesn’t know what he expected or even what he wished for but experience would have suggested that by now he would have either been smothered in a hug or be nursing what would undoubtedly blossom into a vivid bruise. Perhaps more has changed than he originally thought. His Thor ( _not yours never yours_ ) would have rushed headlong into the fray, ignoring any protests or common sense until he seized what he wanted. Loki’s not sure whether this marble statue that seems to have replaced his brother is an improvement or not.

Seconds tick away as they stare at each other, Loki’s tongue flicking out to wet dry lips. His teeth worry the tender insides of his cheeks as he struggles to keep his flighty gaze focused on the blond. Still, Thor says nothing and in the face of the larger man’s stubbornness Loki swiftly folds.

“It’s bad manners not to say anything,” Loki scolds, clicking disapprovingly. He fights the urge to fidget, to tap his fingers against the table, to grab Thor by his impossibly broad shoulders and shake him. A hurricane rips at his lungs, his ribcage, threatening to engulf him—the first time that he’s seen the other man in over five years and Thor acts like he doesn’t even care, he _should_ care, Loki will _make_ him care.

It doesn’t matter what Thor does, he reminds himself, leaning forward so that he can better see the fine spiderweb of wrinkles reaching out from the corner of Thor’s eyes. Loki will admit to being surprised at Thor’s seemingly effortless composure—obviously big brother has learnt a few new tricks in his absence—but in the end, the game belongs to Loki. He controls it and no matter how hard Thor tries to lie, Loki still knows him. Thor’s mask is slipping, it’s already rough around the edges and even now whisper-thin stress lines begin to splinter at its center. Loki can see every crack and he knows exactly how to pry them apart with his fingernails. “What do you want me to say?” Thor asks, his voice rough and wrecked. A scream of triumph threatens to break loose but Loki swallows it down, shoves it to the back of his mind where he does everything that he doesn’t want to think about, like the need to spring across the table, to throw himself into Thor’s lap, cover his hair in kisses…

The weight of Thor’s eyes rests on him, like hands pressing down on his shoulders and Loki bites his lip as panic thrills through his veins, the need to flee always warring with the desire to stay. “Hello is always a good starting point,” he decides and he reaches over to grab Thor’s bottle, finally obeying his body’s frantic commands to _move_ , to do _something_. He smirks over the rim, easily swallowing the frustrated howl which churns in the back of his throat.

As he drinks Loki tilts his head backwards to expose the long line of his throat, one of his few physical attributes that he can find no fault with. Swallowing turns into a production, muscles working overtime to get the meager amount of liquid down his stomach. The taste assaults his tongue and Loki winces—how Thor manages to actually enjoy that horse piss is beyond him. Still he’s made his point, whatever it was, and satisfaction curls warm in his chest as Loki surveys his results.

Thor stares beyond him, storm blue eyes fixed on a spot just over his left shoulder. A muscle twitches in the corner of the blond’s jaw and his nostrils flare as he sucks in a deep breath. A dark thrill ignites in the pit of Loki’s stomach, the sick anticipation that he always gets when he knows that Thor is half a step away from losing his temper. This, this is what he wanted, the gathering clouds in Thor’s eyes, the thunder in the way that his hands clench around the bottle and if Thor will not relinquish his love then Loki will gladly seize his anger.

Everyone always thought that Thor was nothing more than a big sloppy Lab puppy whose worst habit was slight over-exuberance and maybe a tendency to destroy furniture. Loki pities those poor fools because he knows the truth. Thor is as a far removed from a puppy as a tiger is from a house cat. He’s felt the full force of Thor’s fury break upon him and been swept away on the tide of his rage.

Thor sighs, losing momentum and Loki takes the pause to strike, cobra quick. “You’re less loquacious than even I would have imagined,” he comments, picking at the table’s uneven wood grain. He grins, sharp and vicious, when Thor sucks in a deep breath, his wide chest expanding in an attempt to reign in his temper. Thor would like to think that he’s a bastion of patience and goodwill but Loki knows the truth—his brother is an expert in self-manipulation, nothing more. The number of times that Loki lied to Thor pales in comparison to the number of times that Thor managed to deceive himself. Even Thor’s valiant attempt to remain composed and in control is a lie. From the beginning of the conversation Loki’s been in charge, even further than that—ever since Thor’s lips crushed against his, ever since Thor sobbed his love into the sweat-damp skin of his neck.

“Hello,” Thor finally says and it’s ridiculous how much that single word inflames him. Electricity crackles along his skin and blood pulses violently within the all-too feeble confines of veins, urging him _move move strike now go move_ so Loki laughs, longer than is necessary, the sound catching and scraping in his throat.

Thor’s palm slaps the table. The sound is barely audible above the radio but it’s familiar enough to send a cold chill down Loki’s spine and to stutter his laughter into a sick hiccup. Clouds gather in the furrows of Thor’s brow, the storm rising and a smile flickers around Loki’s lips as they stare at each other. “What do you want?” Thor asks and if it weren’t so maddening now then Loki would be impressed with his brother. In spite of Loki’s blatant goading Thor still manages to sound calm. Loki’s heart quickens as his mind starts to race down twisted paths because it’s not enough to just see Thor, to talk to him, not nearly enough. He wants obliteration, he wants absolution, he wants Thor’s forgiveness and his fists—He _wants_ and whatever this is, it’s not enough and if Thor doesn’t do something then Loki thinks that he might just scream.

He chuckles instead, the sound brittle like nails on a chalkboard and Thor frowns, his wrinkles becoming canyons. Loki feels almost guilty for being the reason that deep lines have marred his brother’s previously flawless face. “What do you want?” Thor asks and this time his voice shakes.

Out of desperation Thor may have learned some rudiments but it is still Loki’s game, always has been. He plays it to perfection, teasing out a flawless grin, hard and cruel around the edges. His lips lift up to reveal bared teeth. “Who says I want anything?” Lies, lies, so many lies that Loki’s forgotten which of them is the closest to the truth, _who says I want anything_ , he wants too much, that’s his problem, wants a family, wants his lover, Frigga’s smile, Thor’s hands, acknowledgement, comfort, pain, fear, peace, he wants it _all_ —“Call it boredom if you wish—“

Broad fingers wrap around Loki’s pale wrist and press punishing red marks into the pale skin. Despite the fact that he was anticipating it, was actually pushing Thor to the point of violence, it’s still a surprise and a gasp escapes his lips. Skin sings at the contact of flesh on flesh, of _Thor’s_ flesh on _his_ flesh but it’s too much, too soon, ridiculous that he comes undone after a single touch—

“Get your hand off me.” Anger has always been the one emotion that always felt genuine to Loki, the one that he could trust because it never wanted to hide, only to destroy. For Loki, rage has always been cold, yet he burns, his skin sparking where it touches Thor’s and he needs that, craves it like his next fix. Nothing’s ever gotten underneath his skin, into his blood, like Thor and no matter what else he puts in his body he’ll always want Thor the most, the sweetest, deadliest drug, just one hit and Loki was gone—He twists his wrist and accomplishes nothing more than a sharp twinge of pain rocketing up to his shoulder.

Thor doesn’t let go and alarm clouds Loki’s brain, the horror of a wild animal caught in a trap, the sound of a chain clinking shut around him. The blond is implacable, an immobile force next to Loki’s quicksilver shifting, easily resisting Loki’s futile attempts to free himself. “What do you want?” Thor asks and Loki sneers at his single-minded determination.

“I want you to let me go,” he snarls, bringing his other hand to join in the struggle. His nails dig painful furrows into the meat of Thor’s hand and punch deep half-moon crevasses in the skin. It’s exactly like when they were children, down to the twitch of Thor’s jaw and Loki’s pained snarl. They would never stop, not when thin rivulets of blood ran down Thor’s wrist and not when dark purple bruises covered Loki’s forearms. Echoes of whispers sneak through Loki’s head, his words and Thor’s mixing together until he can’t remember who said what: _give up, cry uncle, say you’re a wimp, say I win, just give up_ —Neither one of them ever did, not when they were children and not after their games of chicken led them into twisted sheets tight around sweaty bodies. They’ve never stopped, even when it became clear that there never were any winners, just varying degrees of losers.

“Stop lying to me.” Thor’s voice rises, not enough to drag any attention to their table but enough so that Loki can hear the increasing note of desperation. His laugh bubbles up, acidic and painful behind his teeth and it feels like he’s retching out his own lungs. Doesn’t Thor know that all he’s ever done is lie? He’s lied so much that when he tried to tell the most painful truth of his life Thor didn’t believe him and just turned away, walked away like it was nothing, like he was nothing, and then he just sits here and asks what he wants…

“There was nothing that anyone could have done?”

The words escape his mouth before he can wrestle them back in and they leave a sour aftertaste, like too many lies gone stagnant, like disappointment and guilt turned rancid, a festering wound that he was never brave enough to lance. Loki figured that he had plenty of time, decades to make Odin and Thor sweat and hurt, years and ages to skulk away, plotting his perfect revenge—he hadn’t been aware that there was a time bomb ticking away the seconds in Frigga’s brain, that in the difference of cells holding together and cells splintering, his plans for the future would be shattered.

Thor startles and his grip loosens enough for Loki to yank his bruised wrist back to safety. The urge to cradle the injured limb to his chest is strong but he fights it for the sake of Thor’s eyes watching him, though the look in the light blue orbs is one of stunned grief instead of judgment.

“It was an aneurism,” Thor says, his voice slow and soft, like he’s calming a spooked horse. Loki resents the tone as much as he craves its comfort, listening to deep consonants and soft vowels roll over his body. “There was nothing that anyone could have done.”

Loki academically understands the qualities and facts of Frigga’s murder but somehow it takes Thor’s words to finally accept it. If all that muscle and brawn, all Thor’s goodness and heart could not have stopped Frigga from dying then how could he? Unless…A quiet question, whispered across the static crackle of international phone lines, a cruel accusation screamed into a face that was never anything less than loving and understanding…Loki swallows down bile and because Thor is watching him, chokes out a question that he doesn’t care to hear the answer to. “Where?”

He’s wondered this before as he stared at the impersonal headstone while all the while seeing Frigga’s body gracelessly splayed in her study, in the kitchen, god forbid, in the bathroom. Each vision is worse than the last, until Loki’s reaching for something, for anything to stop his mind, to make him lazy and stupid instead, make him forget, make him stop…

Thor’s throat bobs and when he answers his voice hitches.“Her garden.” Loki thinks back to one of the first pictures he’d received from Thor, of Frigga smiling delightedly into the camera with her hands buried in the earth, plants riotously blooming around her. Then his mind shifts and all he can see are those plants mocking her with their life while she turns cold amidst them. He wonders how hard it would be to sneak back to Odin’s house and burn the garden. The scent of burning earth, the crackle of traitorous foliage…Frigga loved her garden, would spend hours in the early spring slaving over it and tending the new shoots with the same care that most people showed their infants.

His fingers still itch to destroy something as restless anger shifts within him and his eyes light on Thor. His not-brother always makes such a delightful target but as Loki stares at the blond, his malice slowly fades until the desire is nothing more than a vague, unsatisfying itch. He notes the shake and tremble of broad shoulders, the shine in blue eyes, the gleam of a solitary line down Thor’s cheek.

Loki almost looks away but he finds that, as with most sights that are strange and horrifying, his gaze is riveted. He’s never seen Thor cry, not when they were children and receiving one of Odin’s furious tongue lashings, not when Loki burnt him with a cigarette for no other reason than to see what he would do and certainly not when Loki decided to leave. Thor doesn’t cry and yet…Yet here he is, in a crowded bar with tears steadily making their way down his cheeks.

Fascinated, Loki reaches out and touches one. The moisture sits on the pad of his finger before it slowly starts to seep into the whorls of his fingerprint. Before he can stop himself, he brings his finger up to his mouth and licks, the taste of salt exploding on his tongue. His gut squirms in delirious, sick excitement when Loki realizes that to the rest of the world the taste of Thor’s tears is a mystery, that here is a piece of his brother that only he owns. The knowledge softens him and shaking fingertips trace the tear tracks before smearing them into obscure designs.

Thor trails his fingers up Loki’s arm, starting at his elbow and ending at his wrist, broad fingers prodding at the sharp juts of bone. Loki allows the touch, shivering as Thor’s thumb traces over the delicate bumps of pale blue veins visible just underneath his skin. Loki allows his fingers to wander over the plains of Thor’s face, rubbing over the scratch of day-old stubble and reacquainting himself with the burn. The prickle of tiny hairs into the meat of his thumb is delicious and Loki wonders how he managed to make it through a day, let alone years, without the ache of joints unwittingly bruised by a sibling who constantly underestimates his own strength, without his inner thighs scrubbed a bright scarlet by Thor’s chin.

Thor smiles at him, so honest that it sets Loki’s teeth on edge. How can Thor still smile like that when he should have seen the worst that the world had to offer him? How, with Frigga’s death and Loki’s own perfidy staring him in those guileless baby blues? He’s angry and jealous but most of all, Loki is afraid because eventually someone other than him will notice that Thor doesn’t bother shielding himself from any sort of cruelty. Thor’s weakness, his _goodness_ , will be evident for all to see and his brother is so ill-prepared for the true ugliness of this world.

Thor turns his head, slowly enough that Loki can’t possibly misinterpret what he’s planning on doing. His faux brother is giving him plenty of time to cry uncle, to tell him to stop, to blink and lose but Loki’s never blinked, not once, even when he should, and so he accepts the soft kiss that Thor presses to his palm, saliva and tears mingling in his hand, breath warm on his skin, the tip of the blond’s nose digging into his flesh, eyelashes fluttering over his fingertips like tentative butterflies. Thor exhales a shuddering breath into his skin, maybe anger, maybe pain but it’s the most that Loki’s felt in years and his fingers curve to rub against Thor’s jaw in faint benediction.

And Thor never blinks, even when he should so he ruins everything by whispering, so softly that Loki should just pretend that he doesn’t hear it, but he _does_ and Thor should _know better_ , should know that the world is ugly and cruel, and worse than all of that is Loki because he could pretend that he didn’t hear but there’s still some part of him that wants to _hurt_ , hurt Thor, hurt himself, doesn’t matter since it amounts to the same damn thing. Thor used to know him, Thor should know that there’s something twisted and broken in Loki, like a plant growing away from sunlight—so why, _why_ , does Thor ask, “Come home with me?”

The harsh clatter of his chair scraping across the hardwood floor shatters any illusion of intimacy. Thor looks as though he’s been slapped in the face, his chin still tilted and searching out Loki’s touch, even as Loki takes a stumbling step backwards, putting himself further out of reach. Furious and shaken, Loki sucks down an uneven breath to rid himself of the memory of Thor’s flesh against his. He bites at the inside of his lips, the sharp pain chasing away any sensation of pleasure still tingling along his nerves.

How _dare_ …After everything they’ve been through nothing’s changed. Nothing ever changes for him, five years, countless miles and sleepless nights and Thor still thinks that he can rule Loki’s life with nothing more than a bat of his pretty eyelashes. He would have Loki come back, live underneath the disapproving eye of a man who never wanted him, who begrudged him everything and was all too happy to remind him of what a failure he had been, to rub elbows with people who would smile at his face and then happily slice him to ribbons the second his back was turned. Thor wants to shove him into a world that was never his, that could never _be_ his…Loki teeters on the edge of violence and desperation, caught between wanting to lunge forward and rip Thor to shreds with his fingernails and wanting to lunge forward and bury his face into the crook of Thor’s neck, the one that seems as though it was perfectly crafted for him.

Seeing Loki jerk away and reacting on panic, Thor tries to grab him, his outstretched hand screaming a soundless plea. Loki gropes for words but his tongue is useless and stilted so he settles for a low hiss, the sound escaping through his clenched teeth. Startled, Thor jerks his hand back and Loki tries not to feel sad that once again he’s slipped through Thor’s grasp.

“ _Please_.” But not even the heartfelt quaver held in Thor’s voice can restrain Loki, not now. He hadn’t bothered to plan far into the future but now he can see the faint structure of his hopes shattering, futures crumbling, all because of Thor. “Loki, please, come home.”

Loki laughs once, a dry bark that scrapes him raw. “I don’t have one,” he says, the acknowledgement leaving him oddly hollow.

It hurts worse than he thought it would when he takes a further step away from the table. His hands fidget and correct the placement of his jacket until, irritated with their refusal to stop moving, Loki shoves them deep into his pockets. Thor’s shoulders slump towards the table, defeated and forlorn. Now would be the perfect time to drag some last cruelty out, to twist the knife so deep that Thor will never be able to fully withdraw every poisonous splinter from the shattered blade.

He can’t. He tries, he really does, and several ideas briefly flit into his mind but to say any of them feels as though it would drag something out from him that he would rather stay put, like sticking a finger down his throat just so he can vomit. Better to flee, to slink away and then…and then…Thousands of possibilities beckon, a dozen different ways to escape, to run from Frigga’s golden hair against green grass, from her sad eyes looking at him in Thor’s face, from the damp mark of Thor’s kiss against his palm.

“Goodbye Thor,” Loki whispers, forcing the words out through a tightening chest. He turns and walks away, his steps steady and measured even though his vision is narrowing to thin slits and he’s just barely managing to hold in a scream.

He doesn’t look back because if he did then he might surrender and run to Thor, fold himself in his brother’s embrace and never emerge and if he did that, then he would be more lost than he ever has been. Loki continues walking, his feet taking him down unexpected twists and turns until he’s not even sure where he is. Then he stumbles into a secluded alley and lets his knees buckle. He sags backwards, the harsh brick of the building behind him breaking his fall, pavement rough on his ass and hands as he slides to the ground. Choked off yelps and sobs tear at his throat, rage and grief mixed with desperation and Loki just wants to go, wants _Thor_ , wants _Frigga_ , just wants to _stop_ …

Loki doesn’t blink. He never has.

 

*~*

 

When he left Loki had a plan but he didn’t want to complete it. At least not at first. Instead he did everything that he thought people should do when they ran away from their homes or their husbands and got drunk, got all different types of high, forgot to eat, passed out and woken up in rooms that he had no memory of entering. Flush on money from his trust fund, he’d considered the world his oyster and plundered it accordingly.

It had been fun, even if Loki couldn’t remember half of what he’d done, but in the back of his mind he knew that he was just putting off the inevitable. And, as he came careening down in a spectacular crash, curled up in the fetal position and scrubbing his face with shaking hands, he’d known what he had to do. It had taken him several days to sober up and gather his remaining tiny shreds of courage before he cracked open his laptop. He’d found the page long ago but had subsequently skirted away from ever looking at it, his eyes automatically avoiding its very existence. The consequences of looking had far outweighed the benefits, at least until now, when it felt like he had nothing else left to do.

That page and his own destructive determination led him here, to a trailer park far away from the main roads, his tires bumping and sliding over the long gravel drive which was still covered in ice. Loki cursed as his tires slipped, losing traction and sending him in a swift fishtrail across the road. Now he regretted renting the flashy sports car. Had he known that he was coming to the abandoned wilderness—Well, then it would have been easier to talk himself out of making the trip in the first place.

The numbers on some of the trailers were faded almost beyond recognition and Loki had to squint to make some of them out. He finally found the right unit and parked, his hand trembling briefly on the gearshift. Cold stung his cheeks as he got out of the car, its bite bracing but not entirely unwelcome. Thor hated the cold so Loki embraced it, savored the small gasp that escaped whenever he stepped outside into a freezing wind. Eventually the affectation became preference and Loki sighed in satisfaction as he hiked the collar of his jacket higher around his neck.

He paused outside the trailer, sharp eyes absorbing every nuance of the beige trailer. He wasn’t an expert but there didn’t seem to be anything special about this unit. There was no outward appearance of either wealth or poverty, only a sedan with the paint peeling off of the hood and slightly dingy siding on the unit. His eyes darted back to his car, looking painfully out of place here in the bleak landscape, as he licked his lips, his tongue prodding at a chapped spot. He could leave now and no one would be the wiser. It was a fool’s errand coming out here, nothing good could come of it—Before he could think anymore Loki walked up the uneven steps and rapped his knuckles sharply on the door.

No answer came and relief flooded through Loki even as he knocked again. In the silence that followed he could hear shuffling coming from within the trailer. Loki sucked in a deep breath and clenched his fist where it was jammed deep into his coat pocket, hoping that the bite of fingernails into flesh could stave away the feeling of light-headedness that attacked him. It only got worse when the door creaked open, revealing a shadowy figure whose face was still hidden by the darkness inside the trailer.

“What do you want?” It sounded as though the speaker smoked a pack and a half a day, the words almost unrecognizable through the deep rasp. Vague menace lingered in the tone but there was also the suggestion of strength gone to seed, fragility attacking what had been a previously firm foundation.

“Laufey Ymirson?” Loki inquired, swallowing away the uncertainty and leaving nothing but cool arrogance in his voice. His lips lifted up in a smile devoid of warmth or humor and his blood felt like ice in his veins.

“You a bill collector?” Loki snorted in bitter amusement.

“Hardly,” he replied and the door opened the rest of the way.

He had been careful not to cultivate expectations. He’d tried to leave his mind a immaculately blank slate but he still had a thrill of surprise, which swiftly changed into something resembling pity.

Loki’s suspicions about a power lost to age were confirmed when he looked at the man, his eyes immediately sighting the slight paunch of belly which strained the fabric of his stained white t-shirt. The man’s pants were fraying around the hems and pale feet emerged from underneath the cuffs, yellow toenails stark against the white skin. Loki swallowed as he took in the black hair, greasy and combed backwards in failed attempt to hide a bald spot. Dark eyes set deep in sallow skin glared at Loki while the combined smell of cigarettes and stale beer was enough to make his eyes water.

This was his…

Laufey Ymirson was his…

“What do you want kid? I don’t need any of what you’re selling.” Unbidden, a shaky laugh escaped Loki’s dry throat and the man’s scowl deepened. “I don’t have time to deal with a punk-ass kid,” he snarled, moving to close the door.

Loki caught the door a second before it closed, swearing as his fingers were pinched in the jamb. “Wait, wait,” he tried, shoving the toe of his boot in the small space that remained, gaining another foothold. The contest was brief—despite his slighter build, Loki had the door pushed open within a matter of moments.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Laufey demanded, rage sparking in his eyes. One of his hands rose and for a split-second Loki was sure that the older man was going to strike him.

“My name is Loki Odinsson, I was born on November 13th, 1990 at St. Mary’s Hospital in Rochester, New York—“ He had more to say, about how the official hospital documents marked his father as unknown but recorded his mother’s name as Farbauti, that he had looked up every Farbauti in the United States and found only one, who died a mere three years after he was born, that the only person named in Farbauti’s obituary was a Laufey Ymirson…Dozens of separate facts littered the reality of his birth but none of them mattered, not now when he was face to face with this man, one of the architects of the whole messy affair.

Laufey’s laugh sounded like two sheets of sandpaper scraping together and it sent an unpleasant chill down Loki’s spine. “You finally found me. I’d wondered if you ever would.”

“Surprise,” Loki said, smiling in a way that showed all of his teeth because even though Laufey beckoned for him to step inside, the look on his face was distinctly unfriendly. As Loki shifted his weight the knife in his pocket bumped against his thigh, silent reassurance that he was not wholly unprotected. After a long moment’s consideration Loki stepped over the threshold and walked into his father’s house.

The general shabbiness and squalor of trailer’s interior didn’t surprise Loki, not after seeing Laufey’s disregard for his own appearance. Dozens of pizza and takeout boxes littered every available counter and table space as well as most of the floor. Their unending line was broken only by the carcasses of beer bottles which clinked softly as Loki accidentally disturbed a large pile with his foot. The smell of grease, cigarette smoke, alcohol and an unwashed body hung thick and heavy on the air and Loki resisted pushing his nose into the collar of his thankfully frequently laundered shirt. Despite his carefully cultivated reputation, Loki still possessed enough tact to know that such an act would be deliberately insulting and he really had no desire to antagonize the other man. Doing so would only get him thrown out or possibly worse—Laufey may have lost some of his previous physical prowess but he still looked as though he could pack a mean wallop.

“So you’re what, sixteen now?” Laufey asked as he plopped himself down into a worn armchair, springs creaking in protest. Loki cautiously lowered himself to sit on a spindly chair at the small kitchen table, turning it to better face Laufey.

“Nineteen,” he answered, bristling when Laufey laughed derisively.

“Got your looks all from your mother’s side then,” and there wasn’t really any denying that. Other than the hair Loki couldn’t spy any similarities between him and Laufey.

Then a slow smile spread across Laufey’s face and his eyes shone in the dim lighting that slanted through the mini-blinds. Loki met the pale, calculating gaze and suddenly reevaluated his conclusion that he inherited nothing from the man in front of him.

“Come here,” Laufey said, the command sneered between two thin lips. “Let’s see how you turned out then.”

“I wouldn’t think that you would have cared,” Loki quietly said but he walked in front of Laufey all the same. With a ponderous heave the older man managed to get up out of his chair and he stepped forward until they were close enough to touch.

He flinched when Laufey reached out to him. It was a reflex, something that Loki could no more control than he could gravity but it seemed to amuse Laufey, who laughed as he took Loki’s chin in a hard grip. His head was manipulated to turn in each direction and Loki’s upper lip curled in distaste for the calculating look on Laufey’s face. His neck protested at the cruel treatment, being jerked up and down, from side to side but any protestations were swiftly murdered before they had a chance to escape. This was nothing more than a subtle display of power and Loki was sure that in this game he would eventually come out the winner.

After one final wrench Laufey seemed satisfied. He laughed into Loki’s face, sour breath washing over him as his large hand curled to hold Loki’s jaw, fingers pressing just underneath the hinge in a threat so subtle that Loki wasn’t sure if it even existed or if he was just being paranoid. “All your mother,” and Laufey seemed pleased once more as he sat down, releasing Loki with an abrupt push.

Stepping cautiously through the trash, Loki returned to his seat. His jaw still ached from his father’s ungentle touch and he knew that he’d been right to assume that there was still strength within the doughy form.

“She wanted to keep you.” Loki jerked at the words, callously tossed out as though they meant nothing. “She fought me tooth and nail, refused to give you up—“ Loki tried to suck in a breath but all the air in the trailer seemed tainted and spoilt and there wasn’t enough clear oxygen for him to get rid of this light-headed, nauseous feeling that was spreading throughout his body.

“What changed?” he asked, trying to sound unaffected but his voice croaked halfway through the sentence.

Laufey smiled meanly, teeth shining pale yellow in the dim light. “I told her that she could keep you, that I wouldn’t fight her anymore.” Loki swallowed down the question rising in his throat because the satisfied, shark grin stretching across Laufey’s face told him that there was more, much more, to this story. His stomach turned as his heart beat a harsh warning in his chest and he wanted to get out, to run back to the car, keep running until he got into his hotel room, climb in the tub and fill it to the brim with scalding water that left him lobster red, throw back whatever he could find just so he wouldn’t have to think about how Laufey looked as though he could eat him whole and never even care…

“But she would always have to watch you, every second of every day because babies are so fragile aren’t they? You pick them up to feed them, one slip—“ Laufey’s hands clapped together and Loki flinched from the sound, adrenaline cruelly spiking and leaving him feeling brittle and shaky. Suddenly uncaring of appearances, Loki’s hand slipped down his thigh. The knife’s outline was clear against his hand but it no longer provided the comfort that it once did. “Just one mistake, one careless second and you’re shit out of luck with a baby.”

How could he have ever thought that this was a good idea, why had he even considered this, sitting across from a madman who would have gladly seen him dead?

“I told her not to get knocked up,” Laufey said, his hands glowing in the light of the cigarette he lit. “Told her that I didn’t want kids but she went and did it anyway…” His eyes narrowed to thin slits as he glared at Loki, his twisted amusement vanished and replaced with anger. “She fucking left me, about two months after she got rid of you. Just left in the middle of the night. I tried to find her but I never could, only found her after she’d kicked it…”

Without warning, Laufey lunged forward, cigarette dropping forgotten to the ground as he reached for Loki. His hands were claws, going for Loki’s face and throat, lips curled in a snarl of rage. Loki threw himself backwards, boxes and beer bottles flying in the wake of his clumsy escape attempt. He tried to find a piece of furniture, something, anything, to put between himself and his father but his panicked brain found nothing.

Laufey roared at him, spittle flying from his mouth to strike Loki’s face. “Everything was perfect before you! You little fucking shit, you ruined everything, I should have fucking killed you when I had the chance, should have fucking beat her till she bled you out, you worthless piece of fucking shit kid—“

A bottle rolled underneath his foot and Loki soundlessly gasped as his balance was all but obliterated. Only the harsh collision of his back against the wall saved him from falling but the impact knocked the wind out of him for a few precious seconds. It was enough for Laufey to cross the few feet which separated them and wrap his hand around Loki’s throat. His other hand struck Loki across the face and a white-hot blaze of pain spread across his nose and cheek. It was followed by the heavy drip of blood down his lips to his chin, the metallic taste bitter on his tongue.

“Think you would show up here and we would have a fucking hug-fest, that you’d get a happy ending?” Fingers squeezed around vulnerable flesh and Loki coughed underneath the hold, small flecks of red staining Laufey’s cheeks. His vision blurred and began to go black around the edges. Loki’s oxygen deprived brain scrambled for any solution, any way out and in a desperate, insane hope, his eyes flickered towards the door. The memory of Thor bursting into high school locker rooms was still strong after all these years, how his brother’s eyes would blaze with anger upon seeing Loki cornered by several opponents. He would never stop to ask questions, just sweep through them like a vicious thunderstorm and leave nothing but devastation in his wake. Now, with his situation more dire than any he had previously been in, Loki still looked towards the door, all the while knowing that Thor would not come, that he was alone, that it had been his choice to do this and in this at least, he had no one to blame but himself.

_Christ_ , Loki thought as a helpless wheeze escaped through his teeth as Laufey squeezed harder. _He’s going to fucking kill me, right here, fucking lunatic, Christ I don’t want to go like this_ —

“Worthless punk kid, think you can show up here in your fancy little car, wearing her face, think that you can get away with anything, that the whole fucking world belongs to you—“ Loki’s left hand wrapped around Laufey’s thick wrist, futilely trying to break his ferocious hold, while his right hand groped frantically at his thigh.

“Stupid useless little prick, no one wanted you, you were never supposed to have been born, you shouldn’t have been born, I should have never put you in that stupid bitch’s worthless cunt, should have—“

Loki’s hand swung up and silver flashed dully in the darkness of the trailer. A second later, the bright scent of copper assaulted his nostrils, accompanied by a high roar of pain and rage. Loki’s knife clattered to the floor, released by nerveless fingers, red still sluggishly dripping from the blade.

The hand loosened around his throat, just for a second, but it was all the time that Loki needed to strike out, his fists hitting Laufey in his unprotected belly and sides. In his mind, Thor’s patient voice recited the soft spots of the human body— _Solar plexus_ —a knee and a whoosh of air escaping— _kidneys_ —a low moan of pain— _stomach_ —a kick, his toe buried in unresisting flesh—Laufey lay on the ground, his body attempting to curl around his vulnerable midsection. Loki drew back his foot to kick one more time before sagging against the wall with a disbelieving laugh.

“Fuck you,” Loki panted as he massaged the skin of his throat before wiping the blood from his nose. Rivulets trickled across the back of his hand, crimson vivid against pale flesh. Even after Loki wiped his hand on his pants, the blood was still there, a rust-red stain smeared across his skin. “I could have never come from a shitty piece of trash like you. There’s no fucking way.”

Laufey might have said something in return but Loki didn’t hear it, the blood pounding too strongly in his ears to be aware of anything else other than his own heartbeat. He limped towards the door which had fallen open in the chaos of the fight. He wondered that no one had interrupted them but perhaps life and death battles were the norm in Laufey’s trailer, though Loki was more inclined to suspect that it was because no one gave a damn what happened to the man .

A low wheezing laugh arrested his movements. Loki paused and turned back, his foot already across the threshold. His body was tensed for another attack but Laufey showed no signs of getting up. Instead he stared at Loki, his eyes lighting up with mirth that bordered on insanity. Loki shivered but he willed his face to remain impassive. Blood still trickled into his mouth through the thin crease of his lips and the taste kept him in the present, reminded him of what was real. 

“You’re wrong,” Laufey finally said and he pushed himself up, laughing when Loki automatically jerked backwards. Shame, hot and sour, jolted up his throat and Loki hated the embarrassed heat that he could feel rising to his cheeks. He took a step forward and sneered down at the beaten man in front of him.

“Which part?” he asked, voice cool and superior, not quivering, not weak, not vulnerable. 

“There’s no one else you could have come from other than me.” 

Loki laughed in his face, a wild, hysterical sound torn from his deepest part. Hate tore at him, more rage and disgust than he’d ever felt towards anything, a tornado of destruction howling inside and all he could think to do was to spit on the floor, red-tinged saliva staining the already soiled floor. He walked out the trailer, his every footstep jarring his aching body to the point that he was panting when he finally slid into the car. Without a backwards glance he twisted the key in the ignition, finding comfort in the resultant roar. 

He flew over the highways, barely noticing the cars in his path or the long blare of car horns behind him. His hand absently rubbed at his lip, still coming away with a faint smear of blood, and his throat was still tattooed with vivid red marks. He didn’t care. His whole world had shifted to the interior of the car, his only goal to retreat to the safety of his hotel room. 

Once inside he curled up on the bed, phone laying a few feet away from him. He reached out, fingers already tapping out the pattern that they knew so well. It felt like steps to a dance that he almost forgot, felt like walking up the porch and unlocking the front door, felt like Thor’s contact information appearing underneath his fingertips like magic, like Thor could come in and make everything go away— 

Loki threw the phone across the room, heard it smash against the wall. Weakness and sentiment, running home with his tail tucked between his legs, Thor’s face shoved into his, screaming _Why Loki, why_? 

_Because I wanted to know_ , Loki thought, his knees rising to touch his chest as he curled further into himself. _Because I wanted something for my own, something that no one would take away from me. Because you were too good and I needed to be like you. Because I’m fucked up and that’s all I’ll ever be._

_There’s no one else you could have come from other than me_.

Loki bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood again, tangled the sheets over his body as he clutched them close. “Fuck,” he choked out, rolling over and half-stumbling half-crawling to the bathroom. He turned the shower on so high that steam rolled out from behind the curtain, so high that when he peeled his clothes off and threw himself in he had to bite back a yelp of pain as the scalding liquid attacked tender skin. The hurt was good, the sting washing over his body along with the rough scrape of a washcloth until his skin was salmon pink and new and Loki could almost believe that he’d sloughed off all of his old cells to the point that he’d created an entirely new person, someone who didn’t have a lover, never had a brother, never had any father, someone who had been completely alone from the beginning so they never had anyone to lose— 

Loki remembered the rest of that night in snippets and fragments—finding something in his bag and swallowing it down and watching the patterns on the wallpaper shift and change before his wondering eyes. Searching for his phone and putting it back together, cradling it close to his chest, like someone would bother calling him. 

He thought that maybe he talked to Thor, maybe crawled into his brother’s massive arms and sobbed out Laufey’s story, lay back and gasped praise and adoration to the ceiling as Thor mapped out his bruises with lips and hands.

He woke up the next morning alone and curled up in the bathroom, stale vomit floating in the toilet and clinging to the corners of his lips so he thought that it was probably a dream.

 

*~* 

 

He wasn’t expecting Thor to continue.

His brother was stubborn yes, but about stupid things, things that he wanted. If it meant making something work, forcing it to do its intended job then yes, Thor would stay bent over the resistant piece of machinery until Odin finally turned off the lights in the garage, forcing him to come back inside. But Loki still remembers when Thor tried to master physics, how his brother’s forehead furrowed in confusion as he explained the simplest equations, how Thor finally threw his hands up in surrender.

“Forget it,” Thor had said, his face creased in frustration, both from the book in front of him as well as from the swift slap Loki applied to the hand which reached for him. “I’ll never understand it.” 

Thor, Loki decided then, was only interested in forcing things to work for him, not in working to obtain his goals. 

So it comes as a surprise when he visits Frigga’s grave exactly a week and a day after the incident at the bar and he finds a forlorn photograph tucked underneath a child’s toy. It takes Loki a second to recognize it and when he does, his chest twists, foreign and violent, the memory sweet and agonizing. 

It was a stuffed wolf that he had named Fenrir, for reasons unknown to himself and everyone else. He remembers taking that damn thing everywhere with him, to family reunions where Thor would gang up with their cousin Baldur and try to take it away from him until Loki would pounce on them, tears streaming from his eyes and tiny fists flying. The fights were short but vicious, Thor and Baldur both using their superior weight against him, at least until Frigga came and sent them away with a sharp word. Later Thor would tease him about being such a crybaby but it’s Frigga’s touch that Loki remembers most, her gentle hands combing his hair back into order, how she let him wipe his snotty nose on the hem of her shirt and never acted like it was disgusting to have someone else’s bodily fluids drying on her clothes. Loki always assumed that mothers were never disgusted by their children’s snot, piss or blood—after all, it was partially their own DNA and therefore, partially themselves—but after he learned the truth he wondered at how naturally Frigga seemed to accept the foreign substance of another onto her own body. 

Loki wonders if all mothers are that selfless or if Frigga was made of sterner material. He wonders if Farbauti would have wiped his tears away with her fingers before kissing his damp cheeks. So many questions and he’ll never find answers for any of them. In cruelty that could only belong to his life, both of his mothers are gone and he’s left with two fathers, neither of whom ever wanted him. 

The picture is of him and Frigga at his high school graduation, the honor society cords dangling around his neck, the ridiculous cap making his head look several sizes too small while the June humidity frizzes his hair out to truly epic levels. Still, his smile is huge and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners and Frigga looks just as delighted, her arms slung around his narrow shoulders in a tight embrace, head turned so that her lips press into his pale cheek. During his valedictorian speech, the one that he’d tried to avoid, she had cried which had left her eyes puffy and red. She still looked beautiful. 

That summer had been glorious and agonizing all at the same time. Wonderful because he’d been practically vibrating with the excitement of beginning college, of hopefully finding people who were more aligned to his way of thinking than his previous classmates. Horrible because he’d known that he’d willingly chained himself into the same prison that he’d just escaped from. They would be attending the same community college, Thor unsure of what field of study he’d want to commit to and Loki, no matter how much he hated himself for it, had been unable to leave Thor behind. He’d been terrified that his brother would eclipse him yet again, that Thor would spread out across the larger campus and leave no room for Loki. He’d hated hearing Thor talk about his college plans, hearing about the classes that he would take, the parties that he would attend…None of those plans had ever included Loki and he had felt the exclusion as keenly as a blade shoved into his chest.

Loki sighs and runs his fingers over the slightly frayed edges of the photograph. Nothing is written on the back of it and though the picture needs no explanation he misses Thor’s slanting scrawl more than he would care to admit. Nothing about this has gone right. He should have just moved on, gone back to London, to New York, to anyplace where he had several jobs waiting for him, people clamoring for his services. There was no reason to linger here, none at all. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, crouching down so that Frigga’s headstone is even with his height. “I’m so sorry.” Sorry for hurting her, for continuing to hurt her son, sorry for loving her son, sorry for giving grief when she’d only given him love, sorry for not being able to be hers in the ways that mattered most… 

He shouldn’t have come back but he did anyway and he leaves his own presents at the headstone. The customary bouquet of lilies and another photograph, this one taken at dusk from a hotel room just off the Volga River. Just a few lights illuminate the water, leaving most of the picture shrouded in mystery. In the back of his mind a faint twinge of guilt assaults him, leaving his conscience raw and scraped. Thor has left him a memory of love and glee, reminders of a time when Loki thought that in spite of everything, his possibilities were limitless, and in return Loki is giving him the other side of the coin, the shadows and futility that linger behind every sunny day. The other part of him feels nothing but pleasure, the satisfaction at watching his idols fall. 

He has finally determined what he saw in Thor’s eyes at the bar and he wants no part of his false brother’s pity, not his sanctimonious sympathy or his cloying sentiment and desire to cling to times long past.

The sentence scrawled on the back of the postcard took him entirely too long to write but it was the correct thing to say.

_When we were younger I used to wish that I never had a brother. I was glad when it turned out to be true_. 

He does not want Thor’s pity, the cloying nostalgia that creeps into his lungs and chokes him. Worse however, is apathy, Thor’s casual indifference as Loki takes a seat across from him, staring at the condensation rings from the beer bottle instead of at him. Loki expected bellowing, fists flying, smothering hugs—what he wanted is something else, a hazy sort of secret that he barely lets himself contemplate. If he did, then he thinks that it might involve teeth and bruises, the whisper soft brush of eyelashes against his cheek, scrape of stubble and the stickiness of bodies crushed together. 

It’s been too long and Loki no longer remembers what any of those feel like, his skin refusing to hold onto memory. It’s all for the best—he no longer knows what his fragile body could support. Still, despite all of the reasons that he should not, Loki still wants, wants with fervency that surprises him. The feeling claws down into his chest, his stomach, into the very heart of him and refuses to leave so Loki will force it out because it’s obvious to him that Thor will not budge, will not relinquish that which Loki desires most. 

If Thor refuses to give him his love then Loki will have his hate.

 

*~*

 

Loki spends the next week mostly lying on his back on the tiny hard bed in the miniscule efficiency apartment that he’s rented. Sometimes he goes to check on his laptop but he quickly loses interest in any jobs placed in front of him, long lines of computer coding mingling with words until the meaning of both are lost on him. Fenrir sits on the other side of the room and Loki would swear that the toy is actually glaring at him, glass eyes beady with judgment. For a moment Loki thought about leaving the stuffed animal behind but he ultimately couldn’t bear the thought of this piece of his childhood being exposed to the world and he tucked the tiny wolf underneath his jacket as he walked back to the apartment. Now, with a silent witness to his degradation, Loki regrets that decision.

He thinks that he might be losing his mind and it frightens him that he doesn’t resent the idea as much as he should. Instead of mourning his dwindling intellect he spends his time wondering what shapes Thor’s face took when he read the back of his card. Was he furious? Hurt? Some delicious combination of the two? 

Loki almost thinks of following Thor to the cemetery, just so he can witness Thor’s hopefully explosive reactions but ultimately he decides against it. Past experiences show him that he cannot be fully trusted when faced with the reality of Thor and he doesn’t think that he would be able to resist the temptation to gloat. With regret, he watches the seconds tick past on the clock, his mind racing miles ahead into the future. Too many possibilities exist there, the terror of the unknown sending his frantic psyche spinning with the need to plan, to control, to understand. Finally Loki swallows a handful of sleeping pills just so he can slow the churning of his brain enough to fall into a fitful slumber.

The next day dawns grey and brooding and Loki pulls the hood of his jacket over his hair as he steps outside. The tip of his nose is kissed by sporadic raindrops as he walks to the cemetery. He’s forgotten how much it rained here, not as much as London but considerably more precipitation than his childhood memories would suggest. In them, home is always sunny and practically blinding in its light but since he’s been back it seems that all he gets is slate days and chilly nights. 

He entertains the notion that Frigga took the sun with her, robbing the unworthy citizens of its warmth and light. It pleases him to think that way, until he remembers that she loved the rain as well, walking barefoot in her garden and laughing as the mud squelched up between her toes. 

Loki’s skin prickles as he walks closer to Frigga’s headstone and he glances to either side, keeping his head ducked down low. He doesn’t see anyone watching him but that means nothing. Anticipation runs thrilling through his body as he entertains the fantasy that perhaps Thor is watching him, maybe Thor is lurking somewhere in the cemetery, ready to bring his wrath down upon Loki’s unsuspecting head…. 

He makes his way unmolested to Frigga’s grave and finds himself strangely disappointed. It feels like he’s been stood up, like Thor forgot a date that they never planned. Better this way, he tells himself as he kneels before Frigga’s grave, his knee sinking into the damp mud. Though Frigga was never surprised by their fights she was never pleased by them either. Yet another disappointment that Loki can add to his tally, though he stopped keeping track years ago, the number of marks too depressing to seriously contemplate.

Loki’s brows furrow in confusion as he catches sight of the bright cellophane wrappers littering the ground in front of Frigga’s headstone. He leans over to clear them away, fury coursing through him at the mere thought that someone would dare litter over Frigga’s grave but then he takes a closer look. At least a dozen Tolberone candies rest on the fresh shoots of grass just beneath Frigga’s grave, their wrappers a shiny outlier in the otherwise dull scenery. Faint stirrings of hunger shift through Loki’s stomach as he looks at the candy, desire long suppressed and all the more ravenous for being denied. He’s still mystified as to the reason that the chocolates are there and he looks around, finds the answer in the waiting photograph. 

Loki sees himself, sprawled on the couch and deep in sleep, a forlorn candy wrapper still clutched in his slack fist. If his size and the soft curls framing his face are anything to judge by then he can’t be more than ten. At the corner there’s a glimpse of gold and Loki finally places the photograph—the last time that he and Thor went trick-or-treating before they agreed that they were too old. They’d done their level best to obliterate the neighborhood before they’d quit and had dragged themselves home after walking almost two miles and stuffing both of their pillowcases so full that Loki, with his scrawny under-developed arms, could barely lift his. After getting home they had both lasted long enough to eat a single candy bar before they passed out, exhaustion taking its toll on their small bodies. Loki didn’t know that Frigga had kept a photograph of that day, capturing their innocent greed and making it into something precious instead of gluttonous. 

_ She always kept a packet of these at the house. Never said why but I think that they were for if you came home. _

Loki laughs through his nose, the sound bitter and empty. “I’ve already told you,” he mumbles but he still gathers the candy. Better he take it than it goes to waste, he figures. Besides, it makes the headstone prettier without the garish gleam of plastic in front of it. 

This time his photograph is of the gargoyles at Notre Dame, their faces twisted and grotesque, blending into the cool grey stone behind them. Loki likes this photograph, had a copy made of it before he gave the original to Thor. It’s seen a lot of wear, the crisp edges worn down into soft fuzzy curves, the paper bending slightly from its frequent handling. He likes how the monstrous blends in with the beautiful, how the gargoyles and stained glass exist in the same breath.

Thor still refuses to learn so Loki has no choice but to teach him. 

_ I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate you. _

 

*~*

 

It had almost been a relief when he found out about the adoption. At least then he had a reason for why Odin (he refused to call the man father, not when the word stuck like tar in the back of his throat) always seemed to treat him like a stray cat—an absent pat, some vague form of sustenance shoved his way and then he was expected to disappear while the favored pets were given the better slice of everything. It soothed some part of him, knowing that life still followed understandable patterns, even if those patterns were less than favorable to him.

But before he found out the truth he’d been obsessed with garnering Odin’s favor, going so far as to declare that he would be a Business and Finance major in college, though he cringed at the very thought of sitting through classes that held as much interest for him as chewing through cardboard. Still, there had to be someone who was ready to take over Asgard Corporation when Odin was ready to step down and Thor didn’t look as though he was interested in much else other than finding new and interesting ways to while his life away. Loki had bigger plans.

The truth changed little except his motivation. It was finally obvious that he would never gain Odin’s love so Loki would have his respect, would wrench it from his begrudging fingers. It made it easier in that his only competition was Thor, who seemed more than content to skate through first high school and then college, expending little more than the bare minimum. 

It made it harder because it was _Thor_ , who, even in complete ignorance of Loki’s plan, managed to thwart it by fighting dirty. 

“Come to bed,” Thor murmured, nuzzling the back of Loki’s neck, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin and down the collar of his shirt. “You’ve been doing homework for hours. Can’t the rest of it wait until the morning?”

“No, it cannot,” Loki said through gritted teeth, his grip tight on his pencil as he diligently continued. He silently swore at the shakiness of his handwriting and just hoped that Thor didn’t notice. If the idiot thought that he was having an effect then his efforts would only double. “I have a class in the morning that I’ll actually bother to attend.” 

Thor huffed against his skin and Loki repressed the shiver that crept down his spine. “Nine is really early,” he said by way of explanation, as though the class’s time had magically changed after he’d signed up for it. “Besides, you never wake me up.” 

“You’re a grown man, I shouldn’t have to,” Loki replied stiffly, glancing back at the book to make sure that he’d copied the problem correctly. Accounting was giving him more trouble than it should have and he blamed it on the fact that the subject was so desperately dull that not even his mind could grasp more than a little piece of it before sliding into a stupor. And this was just the entry level. Loki had no doubt that the monotony would only increase with his continuing involvement. 

Contemplating his so very dull future made him irritable. In an effort to relieve some tension he rolled his shoulders and pulled his elbows backwards. He hit some part of Thor’s body and was repaid with an indignant yelp though Loki sincerely doubted that Thor felt much of the blow. Thor could get repeatedly punched in the face and all that his assailant would reap would be a broken hand.

“Leave me alone before I shave you bald,” Loki said in dismissal, turning his full attention back to his work. Stupid to leave it to the last minute but he’d been writing a paper for his Economic Ethics class and then there was the Business 101 project…And Thor hadn’t been much help, with his stupidly distracting body and ridiculously attractive smile, stealing Loki’s attention without ever trying.

Except now Thor was trying and Loki couldn’t stop the groan that escaped when the blond leaned over him, huge arms caging him in, chest pressed against Loki’s back, head tilted so that his lips brushed Loki’s ear when he spoke. “You’d never do that,” Thor said, smug and warm and cocky. “What would you hold onto?” The tip of his tongue flickered out to tap against the shell of Loki’s ear and Loki shuddered underneath the sensation of _too much not enough_. Thor laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into Loki’s body and that was it— 

Loki whirled around, back twisted in a painful stretch as he lunged for the blond. He gave truth to Thor’s tease as he seized two large handfuls of Thor’s hair and used it to yank his brother’s face closer. Loki’s lips were parted in a strange combination of smirk and snarl and their teeth clacked painfully as the elder futilely tried to rearrange himself. Loki would have none of it and kept the blond stationary, continuing a kiss that was more attack than affection.

Thor mumbled something against Loki’s lips, tongue twisting around the stifled words and Loki hummed in mockery of a response. His back was starting to ache, faint twinges of pain shooting through the lower half but he was committed now, his blood singing in triumphant fury as he nipped at Thor’s plush lower lip.

It came as a relief when Thor, accustomed to maneuvering through Loki’s manipulations, managed to twist his way around to Loki’s front, though Loki did take offense to having his chair unceremoniously shoved backwards so abruptly that he teetered on the edge of falling for one precarious second. “Dammit Thor, be careful—“ he started before Thor’s hand slid across his mouth and silenced him. If not for the assured fingers moving across the zipper of his jeans, releasing the pressure on his swiftly swelling cock, Loki would have bitten his palm. He wound his fingers deeper into Thor’s hair, anticipation tightening his grip and Thor grunted at the further abuse to his scalp. 

“Sorry,” Loki mumbled begrudgingly into Thor’s hand, safe in the knowledge that the apology would go unheard. Thor pulled against his hold, steadily moving his head downwards and Loki let him, though he still kept up some resistance. After all, he was missing homework for this and there was no way that he would be able to finish it tonight, not with Thor’s unusual talent for completely draining his energy. No, he would have to finish it tomorrow, in his fleeting spare time between classes and it would be sloppy at best. 

Sometimes Loki wondered if Thor was secretly competing against him too, both of them caught up in a nameless fight for Odin’s favor and blessing, both of them warring for a responsibility that neither wanted. Loki usually dismissed the thought as soon as it arose, convinced that Thor could never be so duplicitous for long—his brother was made for many activities but lying simply wasn’t one of them. Still, nights like tonight he had to wonder.

But, he decided as he stifled his breathy sigh of satisfaction, released as Thor’s mouth slowly sank onto his cock, there were definite benefits to Thor’s way of fighting.

 

 

Later, it would strike Loki that the real indignity of the whole affair was that he had no intention of eavesdropping. If he’d sought out the information then that would have been different. He would have held himself to blame and perhaps matters would have fallen out differently. But this—he’d merely been walking past Odin’s office, idly recounting everything that he had to accomplish in the day and a half before he was dragged into the festivities for Thor’s twenty-first birthday and wondering which he would wriggle out of. There wasn’t a chance that he could simply skip Thor’s birthday dinner. He would be forced to go and make merry with all of Thor’s friends and the entirety of Asgard Corporation, to worship at the cult of Thor or else suffer the glares and snide remarks of everyone present, not to mention a truly spectacular sulk-fest from the birthday boy himself. Thor might have been turning twenty-one but his methods of conflict resolution seemed more on par with a five year old.

He hadn’t meant to pause outside the door, really he hadn’t, but he’d stopped once he heard Tyr’s distinctive growly voice. Tyr was one of his father’s closest business associations, probably directly behind Heimdall in terms of seniority in the company, and like Heimdall, he’d always looked at Loki as though he was expecting him to possibly burn the building down. Loki resented that. It had been just a small fire and that was only because he was interested in seeing if Asgard’s fire alarm systems were up to industry standards.

Loki’s heart sunk. If Tyr was here now then there was always the possibility that he would be asked to stay for dinner, an invitation which he would accept and then Loki would be stuck having his every breath monitored as though he was an escaped felon. Loki quickly formed a lie, built on the idea that he had too much studying left to join them at dinner, and was mentally congratulating himself on its validity but then he heard the last pieces of the conversation. 

“—made an announcement yet,” Tyr finished. When Loki strained his hearing he could make out the soft sound of feet pacing on the hardwood floor. 

“I was saving it for the dinner,” Odin answered and there was only one dinner that he could have meant—Thor’s birthday dinner. Loki’s heartbeat quickened and he bit his lip to try to slow his breathing down to more manageable levels.

“Both of them?” Tyr asked. 

“It would be prudent to do so,” Odin said, exhaling low and slow on the last word. Loki thought about how Odin had looked in the past few years—wrinkles deeper, eyes always tired even when he was supposedly happy, how he had been missing from the house more often than not in the past month, always caught up at work even though there were no large mergers or deals to complete. Excitement and anticipation pounded unforgiving through Loki’s blood and he smiled, harsh and vicious. This was it, it had to be, sooner than he’d expected but still— 

“Stocks will go mad for days,” Tyr said and the resignation in his voice only fueled Loki’s suspicions. “Are you prepared for that kind of hit?” 

“You know that I’ve been planning this for months. I’ve talked to all of our partners, our subsidiaries and our accountants and brokers. Initially stocks will drop but after the shock passes then they’ll return to normal. After all, there will no major changes.”

Loki admired Tyr’s short little snort, seeing as it mimicked the laugh he wanted to allow. Nothing would be changing? “No, nothing of import, just putting a new C.E.O. at the head of your company, an untested boy who’s never had responsibility for anything larger than his lunch money—“ 

“He’ll be ready,” Odin interrupted, his voice soft but unyielding. Loki recognized the tone and it seemed that Tyr did as well because his protestations immediately ceased. “Nothing will change. There will still be an Odinsson at the head of the company, the same as it has always been since my father founded the company. The people may change but Asgard will continue on.”

Loki rolled his eyes. Trust Odin to spout off the same propaganda that he loved to feed to reporters. He loved to make Asgard sound like it was some mighty empire or kingdom when it was nothing of the sort. Loki knew the truth—Asgard was nothing more than a successful corporation, a business that could be manipulated in any number of ways in order to achieve any number of endings. And much sooner than he’d thought, it would be his. 

“Besides, this is just the announcement. The actual change will happen years from now, long after everyone’s forgotten the stir and excitement. Hardly anyone will blink an eye when Thor takes over—”

Loki smiled, wondering exactly what Thor would say, how his face would look—would he be furious? Saddened? Some combination of the two? He felt the faintest twinge of pity for his brother as he imagined his surprise when— _when Thor takes over_

_ When Thor takes over _

_ When Thor takes over  _

_ Thor  _

_ Thor  _

_ Thor  _

_ ThorThorThorThorThorThorthorthorthorthorthorthorthorthorthor  _

Lips pulled back from his teeth in a soundless scream, Loki lurched away from the door, hands slamming into to wall to keep him from falling over. He didn’t care about the noise he made, not with his mind wiped blank by Odin’s last words. Let Odin know that he was listening, the miserable ungrateful bastard, let conniving Tyr know that he was listening, let them all know, he didn’t care, when Thor takes over…He stumbled up the stairs, body colliding with the railing as he half crawled, half-ran to the safety of his room. The sound of his steps echoed heavy throughout the house, each slap of his feet against hardwood sending another jolt of pain through Loki. A thin wail threatened to escape and he stifled it as best he could, hand over his mouth, knuckles shoved into his mouth as his teeth scored tender flesh. 

His door stood before him, sanctuary, someplace to hide, to run, to flee— The visceral satisfaction of slamming and locking the door only lasted long enough for him to draw in a thin breath that was almost devoid of air and then he was shaking as rage and rejection flooded through him once more. Loki threw himself at the bed, long fingers tearing at the bedclothes, his comforter and pillows, face pressed deep into the mattress as he screamed unvoiced fury, the weight of silence ripping into his vocal chords.

His teeth bit into the pillow and into his arm, fingernails tearing into his skin as Odin’s voice echoed through his head, a sledgehammer shattering the immaculately constructed wall of his plan, his purpose, the foundation of his life crumbling away, a major that he doesn’t enjoy, a career that he’ll hate for a company that he doesn’t want, and all for approval that he craves, stealing from Thor, the man that he loves with a need bordering on agonizing, humiliating that same man just for the thrill of winning… 

Blood pounded in his ears as Loki tried to gulp down oxygen, his throat turning raw from the air scraping against it as he tried to regain his bearing. It didn’t work, his head was spinning and he thought that he was two seconds away from passing out and he wanted to, wanted to leave consciousness behind and float in the comforting blackness, just cease to exist because this was the culmination of everything, his fears and suspicions, his longing and desire, everything that he had buried underneath layers of dirt and shame until it exploded. It was the whole of his life being shit on by Thor and he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t, not with Odin’s rejection and Thor’s love and wanting and disappointment and this crawling need that crept underneath his skin until he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even— 

He was falling apart, ripping at the seams, splintering, watching his life shatter and he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t watch anymore and he didn’t even care, nothing mattered, not the kiss that Thor planted on his temple, not the faint frown-lines between Odin’s eyebrows, not the pills in his hand, the baggie in his desk, not his head swimming and floating, not the cool porcelain of the toilet against his cheek, not the black at the edges of his vision as the bathroom began to fade away, not the loose echoes of Thor’s voice slamming into his skull… 

 

*~* 

 

An itch settles in underneath Loki’s skin, irritating and elusive. No matter what he does he can’t seem to reach it, can’t seem to shake off the niggling doubts which sneak underneath his guard to pick and gnaw at him. Jobs pile up in his inbox, customers seeking his help and Loki glances at them before shutting his laptop. He can’t be bothered with something as mundane as making money, not when his mind keeps turning over conversations with Thor and memories of Frigga.

Another week passes and Thor still attempts to reach out, leaves a picture of him and Frigga poised over a large picture book. The photo is tucked into the book itself and Loki picks it up and thumbs through its well-worn pages. This was his favorite book as a child. Frigga would tell him stories about how he would sit on the kitchen floor, chubby child’s fingers tracing the illustrations as his unsophisticated tongue attempted to puzzle through the same sounds that Frigga’s mouth made so effortlessly.

In return he gave Thor a picture of an abandoned gas station in Kansas, shutters hanging off of broken windows, the inside of the building empty and gaping. Nothing but dirt surrounds the structure and Loki writes the first thing that comes to his head when he sees the solitary building. 

_ I never meant anything that I said to you everything you knew about me was a lie  _

He waits in his customary spot, tucked away between the trunks of two massive oaks. There’s a small niche that seems as though it were made especially for him, for secrets and shame. He tucks himself back and waits. Part of him hopes that Thor has come to his senses and given up while the other part of him waits with increasing anxiousness, counting the seconds that pass and bring the customary visiting time closer. 

Thor has grown more punctual as the years have gone by, appearing at ten past three as usual. His footsteps are steady and fluid as he moves towards Frigga’s headstone and Loki remembers a time when his own steps would have matched Thor’s. A swift inhalation clears the nostalgia from his chest and gives him time to note that Thor is carrying something underneath his arm, though he can’t quite see what it is. Tentative warmth unfurls in Loki’s chest, pressing against the hardened, dark places of his mind. Unease stirs in those places—perhaps this is no longer the right way, maybe he should shift focus and try to reel Thor in instead of breaking him…Loki shakes his head so hard that it aches afterwards. No more attachments. That’s what he promised himself when he came back and he intends to hold to his plan. Maybe if Thor had tried harder that night in the bar, tried to change Loki’s mind, maybe if he hadn’t been interested in merely staking his claim in Loki once more—Loki will not allow himself to become symbiotic with Thor once more, not become embroiled in his brother’s life. He’s proven that he can survive just fine without Thor’s help and to do otherwise now would just be a surrender. 

Thor places his package at the gravesite and stays for a few moments while Loki curses under his breath, desperate to see what Thor’s left. But Thor refuses to leave and Loki’s irritation climbs as the blond kneels down, brushes his fingers over the top of the headstone. He wants to see what Thor’s left for him, wants to feel those arms around his shoulders, feel the way that Thor’s body heat slowly seeps into his body. 

Thor stands and Loki stiffens as blue eyes sweep over his hiding spot. It’s not possible that Thor knows where he is, no possible way that he could even suspect that he’s here. Just his mind playing tricks on him, nothing more than that, nothing more than the fact that he wants to run out to Thor, tackle him into the dirt beside Frigga’s grave, rip his hair, cling to him until all of this goes away—

Loki storms off to his apartment, gets drunk and stumbles to a club where someone passes him a drink and presses several pills into his hand. He swallows them down and the rest of the night is spent in screaming laughter, pounding music and pressing bodies, chaos swirling inside his head, the room spinning on its axis until he’s falling down, down, down, down… 

_Thor_ , he says, reaching out to touch the shining gold in front of his eyes. _Thor_ , he calls again but his fingers grasp nothing but air.

 

*~*

 

He doesn’t make it back to the cemetery until the next week. 

At first he vows not to return. He’s paid his respects to Frigga and fulfilled any filial duty that he might have still owed. He has no further responsibilities to this place. Maybe he’ll go back to Melbourne. That was fun the first time. Maybe he’ll stay in the States and go back to the Rockies. Maybe he’ll stay here, lingering in a place where he has no wish to stay, held captive by a chain that he’d thought was long dissolved. 

Every day, every night, what feels like every second his phone taunts him as it sits within arm’s reach, a thin square of plastic temptation. So easy to find Thor’s number, to press call, to listen to his voice as he answers. Every time Loki thinks _what harm could it do? What would it really hurt_? Then he remembers every time that Thor’s voice did hurt, every trespass his brother committed and then he howls with rage, voicing his screams into the pillow until his voice breaks and he collapses into a panting mess on the mattress. 

He gets up the next morning and checks his laptop, more from habit rather than any real concern, before he puts on his best clothes. He’ll go to Frigga’s grave one last time today, say his goodbyes and finally put this city behind him. He shouldn’t have any reason to come back unless, god forbid, Thor dies and then there won’t be any point to much of anything then, so why bother? He checks his reflection in the mirror, notices the dark purple bags underneath his eyes and curses. He should sleep more. 

He walks back to the bathroom, dry swallows some sleeping pills and flops back on the bed. He’ll go tomorrow, when he looks presentable. Frigga always wanted him to look his best, c ombing through his hair with her fingers, fixing the collar of his shirts. He learned how to knot ties from her, his clumsy fingers mimicking her deft movements until they became second nature. He won’t shame her by appearing at her graveside, looking anything less than his best. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles as the sweet oblivion of drugged, dreamless sleep tugs at him. “ ‘m sorry, sorry…” 

He wakes up the next morning, suit wrinkled and drool drying on the side of his face, gives up on making it out of the apartment that day. Heavy hands reach for the laptop as he tries to prove to himself that he can function as a normal person and all the while he’s aware of the small baggie which resides in the bottom of his bag, taunting him with its nearness. Loki shakes his head and turns his bleary vision back towards the too bright screen of the computer, forcing his clumsy brain to focus. He makes it to the mid-afternoon before he reaches over and gropes between the shirts and shoes left in his suitcase until his fingers touch thin plastic. Just one he promises himself just before he leans down, just to clear his mind and get him moving. He just needs a little push to get his life moving and then tomorrow he’ll be straight. Twenty minutes later and Loki decides that the piles of dirty laundry need to be rearranged and he tosses clothes across the small bedroom, littering the comforter and carpet with discarded shirts and pants before he realizes that the new piles are all wrong and he has to do it all over again. He tears down the curtains, swears at the sunlight, shuts himself in the bathroom and waits for the sun to set.

He crashes into unconsciousness and doesn’t wake until the next afternoon. 

 

 

The pills. They’re the problem. And the liquor in his freezer. And there’s still the remainder of the baggie which still teases him with its empty, glittery promises. Everything gets flushed down the toilet and Loki laughs as he watches the whirlpool suck them away. Triumph flows bright and vicious through his veins, molten gold instead of poison. For a brief second, Loki thinks that he can do anything, that the world is at his fingertips once more.

The feeling lasts for another hour and then Loki is doubled over on the bed, arms around his waist, head pressed to his knees as he gasps and sobs, his body caught in pain and his brain helplessly spinning in circles. He pictures the swirling liquid of the toilet, whines and moans in disbelief, fumbles and claws with his phone, punches in a number and gasps out his need. 

He has to go directly past the cemetery to meet the man and for a split second Loki could swear that he catches a glimpse of Frigga out of the corner of his eye. She doesn’t look angry or even disappointed. She just smiles at him, her mouth quirked in a wistful grin. Somehow that makes it worse and Loki shakes as he walks down the street, clutching his coat closer around him. 

The thought occurs to him of how he must look, hair wild and mussed, his face drawn and sunken, coat tucked around his body—People glance at him and look away, probably glad that he’s not their child, probably feeling sorry for his parents. They know that he doesn’t have a lover, know that he’s alone and Loki hates them all for their perfect lives, for their judgment and pity.

Within another hour, those thoughts are gone and Loki is transported to another reality, one where his life consists of laughter screamed into his ears and the pulse of blood in his veins matching beat with the music that echoes through his chest. He faintly wonders whether he really wants to be here, if he wants lips on his, hands twining into his hair, warm body on his lap, pressed into his chest but when he begins to wonder too hard his brain slips away, the question fading before he can fully process it. _Thor_ , he murmurs against lips that are too soft, too plush, too giving— _Thor, Thor, Thor_ , he whimpers, body shaking and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want Frigga haunting him, doesn’t want his own mind haunting him, he wants, he wants… 

Loki tilts his head backwards, accepts the kisses rained down his face and throat and stops thinking. 

 

*~* 

 

The dirt is cold underneath Loki’s knees as he kneels down at Frigga’s headstone, uncaring of the stain soaking into the fabric. Shaking fingers trace the letters of her name, the date of her death, the words _beloved wife and mother_. He wonders if Odin thought of him when he chose those words, wonders if Frigga still considered herself the mother of two sons instead of just one.

Thor’s gift still waits for him and nausea churns hot and sour in the back of Loki’s throat as he reaches for it. He doesn’t want to see what Thor’s left for him, doesn’t want any other reminders of what his life used to be but he can’t stop himself. He still needs this, needs to see proof that Thor still thinks of him, needs to feel concrete evidence that he matters to someone in this world.

At first Loki wonders why Thor left him only a bundle of papers but then he catches sight of an elegant gold letterhead and he understands. He remembers these letters. After he’d taken a few standardized tests he’d started getting letters from not only honor societies but from colleges as well. He’d taken each letter, opened the unblemished parchment envelopes with meticulous care and read them all, running his fingers over the embossed addresses and letterheads, before re-folding them and putting them into a shoebox. 

Every so often, even into college, he would sit down and bring out the box and indulge in a bout of gloating. These letters represented his first success, his first real acknowledgement from the outside world, the first time that he’d ever stepped out from behind Thor’s shadow. He’d kept those letters like a tiny, vindictive flare of victory, proving to himself that he was better than Thor, that he was more valuable than Thor. The hope that he would one day take over Asgard had been born from these letters.

“Fuck,” Loki whispers, his fingernail scratching over golden designs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Had Thor known what these meant, what they represented? Had he known that Loki had kept these as a testament to his own superiority? Had he known that every time Odin had heaped praise on Thor while ignoring Loki, he’d gone and comforted himself with the thought that Stanford had written to him and ignored his perfect older brother? Did Thor know that in the end, all of it meant nothing, all of the awards and courtship gone to waste, _Loki_ gone to waste? 

“Imagine seeing you here.”

Loki whirls around, already knowing what he’ll see. Thor stands behind him, hands shoved into the pockets of his dress pants as he tries to look nonchalant. Pain and anger catch high in his throat and all that comes out of Loki’s mouth is a low growl, like a wounded animal. Thor’s eyebrows bunch in the middle and the corners of his mouth start a slow descent downwards. Loki swallows the lump of rage and hurt, shoves them down somewhere deep where he doesn’t have to think about them, not yet. Not with Thor in front of him, his mere presence already acting like salt rubbed into still gushing wounds, not with Frigga’s headstone cold underneath his hand, not with his failures laid before him, dirt cold and damp on his knees. “You’re becoming meddlesome,” Loki manages to return, instinct and habit forcing him away from the warmth that Thor seems to effortlessly exude.

Thor’s face twists. “If that’s what you want to call it.” He twitches like he maybe wants to reach out to Loki but stops himself at the last second. Loki silently curses Thor for the attempt and then curses him for not having the courage to follow through with it. “I thought…” Thor trails off as his eyes slide over to the right of Loki, focusing intently on a particular patch of grass.

Loki’s upper lip curls in frustration. Maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him but for the first time he can’t read Thor, can’t see the map of his brother’s intentions furled out before him. Instead Thor’s face is like the ocean on a stormy day, waves constantly shifting and to create a new landscape. Every time Loki thinks that he can finally peer through the murk to see the bottom something in Thor’s stance shifts and it throws all of his conclusions into chaos. Looking that hard into the unknown soon makes him dizzy so, with difficulty, Loki stops and turns his back to Thor as he faces Frigga’s headstone. 

“Feel free to leave at any point,” he mumbles. To provide a distraction, his fingers burrow into the dirt and dislodge the first valiant shoots of grass. Over his shoulder Thor’s shadow still looms, large and dark and Loki’s heart begins in thunder in his chest when Thor still makes no sign of moving. “Did you not understand me, you useless idiot,” he seethes through clenched teeth as his body begins to shake underneath the strain of holding himself together. And still Thor doesn’t move because Thor never moves, he does anything that Loki wants, that Loki needs and right now he needs him to leave almost as much as he needs him to stay, needs to see if Thor’s changed his shampoo in the past five years, if those arms have retained their strength, the remarkable way that they manage to hold on tightly but not tight enough to stop him from leaving—“Go away, go away!” Loki finally snarls as he lurches unsteadily to his feet and spins to face Thor.

He wants rage to be in Thor’s eyes, wants the light blue to have darkened with anger, with the violence of a storm but instead there’s nothing but surprise and sadness and worst of all, what makes Loki’s stomach twist and churn, _pity_ , and that’s not what he wanted, not even close— 

“Loki,” Thor says, his voice low and understanding and Loki hates it, hates that Thor’s eyes are soft when he looks at him, hates that his hand doesn’t tremble as he reaches out, hates that Thor is still capable of reaching out— 

“Loki, come home with me,” Thor asks, and it’s just like at the bar, exactly what started this whole mess spiraling out of control, he’d been doing fine before that, fine until Thor came along and ruined everything and now he’s doing it again, except this time his voice breaks on the word home and that hesitation is as good as blood in the water, Loki’s nostrils flaring as he senses struggling prey.

“Why should I?” Loki asks, long legs taking a single fluid step forward into Thor’s space. His head tilts so that he looks at Thor through the messy curtain of his bangs. “What possible reason could you have for wanting me to come home?”

He doesn’t miss the subtle flick of Thor’s eyes over his body, lingering on the barely visible hollows of his collarbones, the curve of his jaw, the minute flex of his fingers as he rubs the hem of his coat. Thor’s tongue flirts with his lower lip, a tantalizing glimpse of pink that sends Loki’s brain spiraling into countless memories. He smiles, sharp and vicious, a shark’s grin. When he sucks his lower lip into his mouth he can already taste Thor, salt and bitterness exploding on his tongue, infiltrating his bloodstream erasing everything _Loki_ and leaving only _Thor Thor Thor_ to pump through his veins. 

“Please,” Thor asks. His soft voice is the perfect pitch to scrape the raw spots in Loki’s chest and he stifles a gasp at the ache. It’s agony, Thor’s sad eyes piercing into him, the promise of safety and security dangling in front of him and Loki’s not sure who’s playing who anymore, if he’s reeling in Thor or if he’s just swam directly into the net and he can’t think like this, can’t keep up with the quicksand swift changes of this conversation, of his mind.

“Loki, please,” Thor says and Loki blinks in surprise when he realizes that Thor is close enough to him that he can make out the smell of his aftershave. The fact that the scent hasn’t changed in five years digs deep into Loki’s chest, scoops something out of him and leaves him empty and yearning. “You’re not well.”

“What would you know about it?” Loki hisses, jerking away just as Thor’s fingertips brush the back of his hand. His fingers twitch, wanting to wrap around Thor’s throat, rip out his jugular… “How would you know anything about me?”

It’s been too long. He’s forgotten what the subtle twitch at the corner of Thor’s jaw means, the small flare of the nostrils, doesn’t hear the shallow puffs of Thor’s breath or see the swift Morse code of his blinking. What he hasn’t forgotten however, is the explosion, the flash and bang of Thor’s temper finally snapping its leash and drenching him in its fury. 

“Whose fault is that?” Thor bellows, lunging forward and seizing the collar of Loki’s shirt in one broad hand. Loki’s teeth snap together with a sharp click as Thor shakes him, pain ratcheting through his skull at the impact. His hands push futilely on Thor’s chest to no avail as the blond shakes him once more. Loki already unsteady equilibrium shatters and he clutches at Thor’s forearm to keep himself upright, helpless to do anything more other than let Thor’s rage wash over him. 

“Don’t ever, _ever_ …” After several more hard shakes Thor deflates, the rigid lines in his body slackening without warning. Loki falls forward and his hands scrabble wildly on Thor’s chest as he struggles not to fall on his face. He finds his balance a second later and immediately pushes himself away from Thor, wishing that he could somehow erase how Thor’s chest feels underneath his palms. He takes another step backwards, just for the added security. A foot of space stretches between them, though it might be a mile, it might be nothing, Loki’s not sure. 

Thor’s eyes flick over to Frigga’s headstone and his shoulders slump further in defeat. “She wouldn’t want us to fight.” His face turns to Loki in supplication and for a split second Loki can read everything in the hairline wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, the twist of his upper lip, the quiver of his chin. Thor’s grief, his uncertainty, his hope…It’s written as plain on his face as any book and Loki smiles in spite of himself. 

“She’d hardly be surprised,” he returns. The words come easily out of his mouth, with a gentleness that he’d thought himself incapable of. Something in his chest unclenches and the sudden release of tension makes his knees wobble. 

Thor reaches out for him and catches his elbows, arresting his fall before it happens. A second ticks away and Thor exhales, the look on his face that of a man on death row finally seeing the gleaming needle. Loki discovers why when his brother gently pulls him forward, urging Loki’s body closer to his. The breath catches in Loki’s throat and he coughs on rancid terror as his body automatically relaxes into Thor’s embrace. His muscles remember how to properly melt into Thor’s body, his skin tingles in anticipation of Thor’s touch. It’s everything that he wants— 

“Come home,” Thor whispers into his hair.

Loki pulls away from fingers that still try to hold him, though their grip slackens at the first sign of resistance and if Thor really wanted him then shouldn’t he try to hold on tighter? Shouldn’t he fight more, _do more_? Thor shakes his head, a tiny, forlorn gesture that speaks of defeat, of surrender, and he should _do more_ but he’s _not_.

Loki turns and walks away, his footsteps sinking heavy into the ground. It feels like he’s leaving little pieces of himself behind, small shards of his soul littering the ground for Thor to see. The loss should probably bother him more than it does but he figures that by this time he’s lost enough of himself already. A few more pieces hardly matter. 

 

 

Later that night, Loki realizes he’s made a mistake as he shakes and sweats, tucked away in a forgotten corner of his latest club. This isn’t his normal high, rocket filled jubilation screeching through his body. Instead of the expected swift rise to euphoria, this high is nervous and jittery, razorblades scraping along the inside of his veins. Pain bursts inside Loki’s skull as his eyes roll back in his head and small white spots dance behind his pupils.

_Not right, not right, not right_ , he chants, his fingernails digging into the bare skin of his arm in an attempt to pull himself back into reality. The cliff face of oblivion looms large in front of him and Loki feels as though it will only take the merest puff of wind to knock him off and send him spiraling down into the abyss. He’s fucked up somewhere, taken the wrong stuff, been lied to at some point, no matter where it happened, something went wrong and this isn’t right, none of it— 

He’s only felt this once before and he barely remembers any of it, the bathroom’s smooth countertop sliding underneath his fingertips, the water gurgling in the toilet, his vision blurring and blacking as his head spun, Thor’s voice shouting at him, sounding as though it were coming from the end of a tunnel, Thor’s hands shaking his limp body, Thor, Thor, _Thor_ —

Gasping and choking on half realized curses and prayers, Loki dials the one person that he trusts. 

The phone’s ring is barely audible over the pounding bass but somehow he manages to hear it, the chiming lancing deep into his brain and leaving bright pain in its wake. When the line finally picks up Loki nearly sobs in relief. 

“’lo?” Thor’s voice slurs, deep and raspy with sleep.

Urgency makes Loki’s voice sharp as a keen blade slicing through the air and into Thor’s exhaustion-addled brain. “Come here,” he commands, taking care to keep from slurring his words.

The music pounds ruthlessly and Loki’s head throbs with the beat, tiny cracks splintering through his skull until he fears that the least little tap will shatter him. It takes an eternity for Thor to answer, seconds ticking away with the weight of years and Loki’s all but given up hope when Thor speaks again, his voice carefully blank and so quiet that Loki almost doesn’t hear him. “Where are you?” 

Where is he? When he’d left the cemetery he had no plan in mind. He’d stared at the dull grey of the sidewalk as he followed its long line wherever his feet chose to take him. Where had he gone? He couldn’t remember, his mind lost in the whirlpool that Thor always managed to create, his thoughts unwieldy, disjointed things that bashed into each other but never seemed to connect into coherency. 

A flickering neon sign springs to memory and Loki hopes that he’s right, whispers “501 on Broadway,” and ends the call as Thor starts to bark at him. Shaking fingers slide his phone back into his pocket and he leans back against the wall. His heart still beats a static rhythm but the frantic terror has passed into something resembling acceptance. His fate is sealed, the final nail in his coffin hammered in by his own hand and now all that remains is to wait. It’s a relief, to not fight, not to struggle against the tar pit that seems to constantly pull at his ankles, and to simply let himself sink down into the void. 

 

 

The respite is fleeting at best as large hands slide around the back of his head and down his spine before slapping his cheeks. Loki moans, as his consciousness struggles to reawaken, hazy vision blurring around the flashing lights which hover over his head. Thor’s face flickers in and out of focus and Loki closes his eyes. He’s not Thor to be tricked so easily, he can see through the dream and into reality and this isn’t real, none of it, nothing can be trusted, not Thor, not himself, not the floor underneath him or the tight hold of hands on his body. 

“Damn it Loki, no, come on, come on, come on—“ None of his dreams are quite this violent, Thor’s voice low and urgent against his ear, fingers sinking into the vulnerable skin at the corner of his jaw and his throat and Loki groans in displeasure. Just leave him alone, let him be, he’d finally let everything go and it had felt so lovely and now he’s being disturbed again, why can’t Thor just let him _go_ — 

“Damn you, you’re not going to do this to me again, wake up damn you, Loki!” The frantic pitch of Thor’s voice finally rouses Loki, the desperation igniting a half-forgotten spark. 

The lag of his brain makes focusing a difficult task but soon Loki can make out Thor’s face looming large above him, somehow not a dream, somehow, unbelievably real. The smile spreads when Thor notices Loki’s lucid gaze focused on him, the expression involuntary and so wholly Thor that Loki wants to vomit. It feels as though he’s trying to move through tar when he tries to reach up and he exhales in relief when his fingers come into contact with the rough stubble of Thor’s cheek. Not a dream, _not a dream_ , here and real and he came when Loki called, he _came_... 

Loki breathes in and out once, gathers his all of his strength. “Hello Thor,” he greets and in this moment, no high in the world could ever compare to the sound of his name falling from his brother’s lips.

 

*~* 

 

For their high school graduation present, Odin paid for the two of them to take a tour of Europe together. They’d been before of course but always with their parents, forced along to whatever parties and conferences that Odin had to attend with only a few spare hours to call their own. On this trip it was just the two of them, with Heimdall as their chaperone. 

Of course, Loki mused as he peeked around the corner of the hallway, Odin couldn’t have picked a better guardian. Heimdall seemed to have a talent bordering on the supernatural for guessing whenever they wanted to get into mischief; it had been that way since they were children. But it was just late enough that he thought they could maybe, with a little bit of luck, slip past Heimdall’s sight. 

“Anything?” Thor whispered behind him, voice echoing off the hallway and Loki rolled his eyes. 

“Not yet,” he hissed, “but soon if you don’t shut up.” 

“You’re just as loud,” Thor muttered and Loki fought the urge to slap his brother upside the head. Here they were, getting ready to sneak out and experience the nightlife of Paris and Thor was more interested petty squabbling. 

Loki used his heartbeats to measure the passing of seconds until he determined that they were safe. “We’re clear,” Loki breathed, shoving his irritation to the side for the moment and focusing instead on the next step to their escape. “Go for the elevators— _slowly_.” He managed to grab Thor just in time to stop the blond from thundering down the hallway and at a more reasonable pace they crept towards the elevator. Despite the continued quiet Loki didn’t release his breath until the doors chimed shut behind them. Beside him, Thor jostled his shoulder, continuing to shake him until Loki was sliding back and forth against the wall. The weight of Thor’s grin settled on his shoulders, pressing him down to the point that Loki felt like he couldn't breathe. He tried to ignore Thor but it was like trying to black out a window without the aid of curtains or blinds--he could shut his eyes but he when opened them, Thor would still be there.

He could try to leave Thor behind, snag a cab to the nearest club—Thor couldn’t speak French to save his life and he’d be forced to take his nearly helpless self back to the hotel room. Of course then Loki would have to figure out how to obtain his own drinks, seeing as his legal brother would be unavailable to help him. Not to mention that Thor, with his luck, would probably somehow manage to find some French model to take him in and tend to his every need. 

“Try not to do anything unusually stupid,” Loki sighed, convinced that his words were falling on deaf ears as Thor grinned at him, just before flagging down a cab. “Really don’t want to be arrested here,” he continued under his breath, folding himself into the back seat and repeating the address of the club he’d decided on.

The ride passed in silence, Thor practically humming with excitement beside him and Loki imagining all of the ways that this venture could go wrong. Thousands of ways beckon at his mind and doubtless there are more that his mind can’t even conceive of but Loki’s mind was calm. If the worst happened and they were caught then it would be laughably easy to twist a certain word or action and dump the blame squarely in Thor’s lap. Best of all, Loki wouldn’t have to convince anyone of Thor’s guilt as Thor would be more than happy to do that task for him. Thor would tie the noose and tighten around his neck, pull the lever are do it all with a willing heart, all for the merest hint that he might have wronged someone. 

Sometimes Loki felt a stirring of guilt in his heart whenever he thought about how readily Thor accepted the blame for their misadventures, always with a little smile and shrug at Loki, as if to say _Well this was unfortunate but it can’t really be helped can it_? Then Loki would think about everything that Thor had done to him, with his perfect smile, his sheer goodness and then the guilt would lessen, be replaced by something darker and hungrier.

He needed this night, more possibly than Thor wanted it, which he would have thought impossible if it weren’t for the frustration and desire which clung to him like a second skin. The past week and a half had been torture for him, forced into closer proximity with Thor than he’d indulged in for several years. He’d forgotten the little habits of Thor’s—the way that he slept with a single foot sticking out from the covers, the soft snores that escaped exactly ten minutes before he woke up, the blind grope towards the bathroom first thing in the morning. The tease was infuriating, having to watch Thor stride out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips as stray droplets from the shower raced down his chest. He wouldn’t admit it but Loki was glad then that Thor had claimed the bathroom first, as it enabled him to duck into the shower and furiously fist his cock, teeth buried into the back of his hand as the pounding water washed his release down the drain.

It hadn’t been this hard at home, not when Thor had the distractions of his friends and Loki had the luxury of a locked door between them. Everything was too close now, long buried secrets clawing their way to the surface and Loki needed one night, just one, where he didn’t have to listen to Thor’s breathing deepen as he drifted off into sleep, wonder exactly how the rise and fall of Thor’s chest would feel underneath his cheek. 

The cab stopped at the club, letting them out. Completely ignoring Loki’s advice to go slowly, Thor strode straight for the door, forcing Loki into a jog to catch up. Thor swaggered towards the bouncer and Loki watched him, half of him waiting for Thor to be turned away at the door. Of course, the bouncer waved Thor in with little more than a perfunctory nod, given after a split second of scrutiny. Once again Loki had to force himself into Thor’s slipstream, ride along on the path already forged by his brother, except this time, before he could even begin, he was stopped by the meaty hand of the bouncer splayed across his chest. 

“I’m with him,” Loki tried, wincing at the clichéd phrase. 

The bouncer stared at him with a face carved out of marble. Loki took a deep breath, ready to let out a vicious tirade but the weight of Thor’s hand on his shoulder halted his words before they had a chance to escape. 

“It’s fine,” Thor said in halting French. “Everything’s all right.” His face was split into an integrating grin even though his fingers were digging into Loki’s shoulder, belying his easy posture. 

“Fine,” the bouncer finally said after raking Loki’s body with his eyes. “He goes in.” 

It took an elbow into Thor’s side to make him move and Loki lamented over the wasted money spent on language tutors for his brother. It was difficult but he managed not to smirk at the bouncer as the rope was lifted and they entered the club.

He would have been embarrassed by Thor’s wide eyed, gaping mouth amazement except Loki knew that he didn’t look much better as he examined every nook and cranny of the club. It was dark, with only sporadic lightning to illuminate the crowd and the music was loud enough to rattle the windows. Smoke hung over their heads and the air was stifling with the humidity of pressing bodies. 

It tasted like sin and vice. 

It tasted like the sweet heaviness of forgetting and Loki savored the flavor on the tip of his tongue before he swallowed it down. 

“Text me when you’re ready to leave,” he said, deliberately letting his breath ghost over the shell of Thor’s ear. He hid his smile at Thor’s involuntary shiver and shoved the swift surge of want down deep into his stomach. Fun, he reminded himself, he took his fun where he could and tormenting Thor, in whatever way, was always fun. No matter if he destroyed himself in the process, if Loki could rattle Thor’s self-composure in the tiniest way then it would be worth it. 

The roar of the crowd and mass of bodies kept Loki from thinking too much. Within a few seconds he and Thor were separated and Loki didn’t fight against the mob, letting their movements dictate his path. The last he saw of Thor was a golden flash that was soon swallowed up within the darkness. 

Minutes passed, until Loki’s pulse thundered in time with the music, relentless and deep. He took in a deep breath, relished the smoke filtering into his lungs, stranger’s hands sliding over his shoulders and down his back, a slow drop of sweat winding its way down his spine and thought that maybe, just maybe, here was the answer to his wish. 

Most everyone that he passed had a drink in hand but Loki didn’t see how it was possible. The bar was barely visible through the hoard that surrounded it and he was taking it on faith that it was actually manned by someone as they weren’t visible. A faint bitterness rose when the most obvious thought rose to the forefront of his mind—Thor could have parted that sea within a few seconds and no one would have touched him, too in awe of him to even bother pressing close. 

Instead he satisfied his thirst by snagging drinks out people’s hands, vanishing into the crowd before the drink’s owners had a chance to find him. In addition to providing entertainment his plan was also wildly successful—in the space of forty-five minutes his head was pleasantly muzzy and his body felt more relaxed than it had in months, his tension forgotten in the swirling confusion of lights and alcohol. 

He had just managed to sight his next target— another fruity drink, held loosely in a girl’s hand who was more interested in her partner than her beverage. As she turned Loki discovered why she was held in such thrall—the curve of the nose, the line of the shoulders, the arrogant tilt of his head—he would recognize Thor anywhere, through any lighting, no matter whose hands were on his body. 

All it took was a second, a heartbeat, a flick of his eyelashes and his previous euphoria vanished, leaving him empty and scraped hollow. He’d thought that this would be forgetting, that tonight would be _tabula_ _rasa_ but instead—instead… 

“Fuck,” Loki murmured as he swayed on his feet, helpless to do anything else other than watch some stranger run her hands over Thor, tiny fingers curving into the crevices between muscles, fitting herself underneath his arms and grinning up at him. But worse than everything else, worse than her writhing against Thor’s crotch, worse than blond hair wrapped around slender fingers, was Thor’s grin, brilliant and jaw-dropping, its full force aimed at the girl held in his arms. 

Thor smiled at him plenty of times but never like that, so large that dimples appeared in his cheeks and laugh lines like the Grand Canyon framed his face. Loki wasn’t the type who got the full blast of the rising sun. Instead he got the watery remains of filtered sunlight, piss yellow light through dull grey clouds. It wasn’t even that he really wanted the complete intensity of the sun’s rays—he was more than certain that he would burn to a crisp—but he didn’t want anyone else to be on the receiving end either. Most of all, he hated scrounging around the table for any scraps that Thor deigned to throw his way and then feeling delighted with whatever little remnants he managed to cobble together. He was entitled to more than that, he deserved more— 

He couldn’t watch anymore, couldn’t take the twisting rage and envy that tore at him, couldn’t take the sick nausea that climbed slowly up his throat. Stupid to care after all this time, to even give a damn what Thor was doing—it had been years, why couldn’t he be over this? Why was his mind a steel trap of loathing, relentless when it captured its quarry? 

The wall was steady behind him and blessedly cool when he leaned his cheek against it. Here, behind the stairs, the music was less oppressive and Loki felt like he could breathe for the first time in an hour. Here, all he had to think of was the steady rise and fall of his chest, the expansion and loosening of his lungs, blood pumping belligerently through his veins. 

“You look like you could use a pick-me-up.” 

The voice broke into his reverie and Loki whipped his head to glare at whoever would dare disturb him. His eyes swiftly flicked over the stranger—a few years older than him, with dark hair and a little smile ghosting around the edges of his mouth. Flawless English with no trace of an accent so probably not a native Parisian. His suit clung too perfectly to the angles of his body, the fabric practically screaming money and Loki wondered what someone dressed so impeccably was doing slumming underneath the stairs at a half-rated club. 

“And you look like you need to mind your own business,” Loki returned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Not particularly his best comeback but he was tired and more than a little drunk. 

“Come here,” the stranger said, reaching out for him. His fingers had barely made contact when Loki struck. The sound of skin slapping skin was lost in the roar of the music but Loki’s palm stung from impact and when the lights flashed again Loki was pleased to see a red imprint on the man’s wrist. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Loki warned as his sluggish body attempted to awaken in response to the adrenaline blazing through it. 

“All right, point taken.” Loki relaxed minutely when the man took a step backwards, hands held up in a universal gesture of surrender and peace. “Sorry for offering to help.” 

“Unless you can change the world then I doubt that you could help me.” 

He was unprepared for the man’s shoulders to shake in soft, unheard laughter and his body tensed as the man once again stepped forward, one hand reaching into the pocket of his suit. Loki’s body tensed, ready for a fight as the man slowly withdrew his hand. The tension didn’t leave him, even when the man unfolded his fingers to reveal two little white pills sitting innocently in his palm. 

“Change your world for a few hours?” the man offered. 

Loki scoffed but his eyes kept flicking back to the pills, taunting in their white simplicity. “Get many customers with that line?” he asked, tongue sweeping along his suddenly chapped lower lip. 

“More than you’d think,” the man returned, and there was a look in his eyes that Loki recognized, recognized it because he’d seen it in the mirror and reflected back to him in the glass of windows that he passed by. It was the look of someone who’d already won their fight, who had thrown all of their balls in the air and was just waiting to see where they would land. It made Loki almost physically sick to see the glint in this man’s eyes and know that he was the reason for its existence. Bad enough for that reason. Worse because it was true. The possibilities of those tiny pills seemed endless in the fathomless world beneath the stairs, with its corners shrouded in darkness that wasn’t even punctured by the sporadic flashes of light. 

The buzzing of his phone in his pocket came as a welcome distraction and Loki seized it gratefully. The brightness of his screen assaulted his eyes and he squinted to read the text message. Thor. His heart performed the difficult task of both rising and sinking at the same time, leaving him feeling shaky, like he’d just missed a step going down the stairs. 

The words were simple, the question direct. _where are you looking everywhere for you_

Loki swallowed, his mind returning unbidden to the sight of the girl’s hands running over Thor’s shoulders and arms, the casual possessiveness of her body pressed against Thor’s, the simple glee in Thor’s face as he smiled at her. In a mere matter of moments that girl had stolen more than Loki had in a lifetime. It wasn’t fair, that he should have to watch and never have, wasn’t fair that Loki continually punished his brother for a sin that he would continue to commit unknowingly, wasn’t fair that he was the only broken one— 

“How much?” Loki heard the question asked but it took him a moment to realize that the rough voice had been his own. 

The man smiled, slow and long, before he named off an obscene number. Without thinking Loki dug in his wallet and pushed the notes into his hand, feeling the smooth transfer of the pills into his hand. Every single Health class of his childhood screamed at him, every warning of his mother battered against his skull but fuck it all, Thor’s smile, the ripple of his muscles as he stretched to put on his shirt in the morning, the heavy weight of his brother’s hand on the back of his neck, the dread which grew every day when he thought about the impending semester of college, fuck it all and he shoved the pills in his mouth, tilted his head sideways to drink out of the bathroom faucet. 

For twenty minutes Loki thought that he’d been cheated as he waited for something, _anything_ , to happen. He felt foolish for the brief panic that he’d fallen into as soon as he’d gulped down several mouthfuls of water, convinced that his heart would simply stop working and he would fall down dead on the bathroom floor. That scenario rapidly faded from his mind and was replaced instead by jittery anticipation. Unable to stay in one spot Loki paced the length of the club, ignoring the frequent buzzes of his phone as he waited. 

When the high came it hit him unexpectedly. Loki simply lifted up his foot to take another step forward before realizing that he no longer possessed his balance. After he noticed that crucial difference it all became clear, the light-headedness that somehow came with a clarity that was painful in its unyielding sharp lines. Colors became brighter and Loki could swear that he could actually feel the soundwaves traveling through his body, each one vibrating differently until Loki felt full to bursting, his lungs moving aside to make room for the shifting, pulsing beast which lazily flexed its claws, testing the limits of his flesh. “ _Christ_ ,” Loki wheezed. The sudden vibration of his phone startled him into jumping, his feet connecting too soon with the floor. His heart hammered in his chest but his mind was calm when he looked at yet another message from Thor. 

_Thor_ —The beast’s claws grew sharper, piercing the fragile shell which Loki had created to cage it but even this pain had a bright edge to it, one that had Loki laughing even as he gasped from the sheer intensity. This was what he’d wanted all along, this was perfection, this was nirvana, bodies pushing against him in their pathetic little desires for sex and stimulation, didn’t they realize that he had it all, the world cupped in the palm of his hand because Loki was sure that if he tried just a little bit harder he could see the fabric of the universe, stupid puny creatures, he was a _god_ —

Twenty minutes later Thor found him slumped against the wall next to the bathroom, arms hugging his knees close to his chest. Loki had wanted to retreat to the relative quiet of the bathroom, lay his cheek against the cool tile of the floor and trace the designs held within the ceramic squares but he’d been unable to make his feet obey him.

“What the hell Loki?” Thor asked, his voice too loud, too grating, too severe. Loki moaned and swatted at Thor’s general location, his hand contacting nothing but air even as the motion pulled him sideways. 

Thor’s large hands caught him before he hit the floor and Loki had just a moment to be grateful before his world spun around him, his head lolling uselessly as Thor hoisted him to his feet. “Jesus Christ Loki, I’ve never seen you this drunk, how the hell did this happen?” Thor asked as he slung Loki’s arm over his broad shoulders and started to walk. 

Loki couldn’t quite make his feet move in a coordinated pattern and Thor more than halfway carried him as they continued to move. From the constant rumbling against his side Loki could guess that Thor was still talking to him but he’d stopped listening once his muddled brain had processed one vital, all-encompassing fact— _Thor didn’t know_. Loki didn’t have to tell him, he could just pass this off as being drunk, Thor hadn’t guessed the truth, probably didn’t even know that the truth was a possibility—Loki laughed, deep and throaty as he curled his body closer to Thor’s, absurdly thankful for his brother’s naivety. 

“Back to the hotel,” he could make out and Loki hummed in approval. Good, smart Thor, strong, capable Thor, who walked them outside. Loki moaned in appreciation as he drank in fresh air untainted by the scent of smoke and stranger’s bodies. All he could smell now was Thor’s soap and shampoo, his deodorant and underneath that, the tang of his brother’s sweat. Loki bumped his forehead into the solid line of Thor’s jaw, chuckling at the sound of Thor’s confusion. He didn’t catch what Thor said in response to his actions but he couldn’t miss the swift brush of lips against his temple, the pressure gone almost before he’d registered it. 

The memory didn’t dim, not even the next morning when Loki woke with a headache that would have killed lesser men. The places that Thor’s lips had touched still tingled with the memory. Loki wished that there would have been scorch marks across his pale flesh, indelible proof that Thor had thought him worthy, even for a second.

 

*~* 

 

Loki chases the high from the first night every time. Several times he comes close but he never can reach that pinnacle of existence, that godlike state when his every molecule is vibrating and truth and happiness are just a finger’s breadth away. 

The closest he ever comes is when sometimes Thor looks at him, blue eyes soft and unreadable, full lips curved hesitantly like they would ask him to dance but they’re afraid of rejection. A soft brush of fingers, his name whispered silken soft across the inches that separate them and the fabric parts, and it’s _there_ —

Later Loki will think back and realize his mistake but at the time he chalks his failures up to his own shortcomings and continues to experiment, sure that this next time he’ll be able to succeed. 

*~*


End file.
